UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  of 
AT 
LOS  AMGELES 


I  TOD  ADV 


(CARMEN    SYLVA) 
OJJEEVC    ELlS/tBETH 
OF 


o  er  n  r  4 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION 

THE   CHILD  OF  THE  SUN 

SORROW 

THE   REALM   OF   PEACE 

EARTHLY   POWERS 

THE    INEXORABLE          ...... 

WILLI 

THE   HF.KMIT          ....... 

LOTTY        .........      I45 

MEDUSA          ........          187 

HEAVENLY   GIFTS     .......      219 

THE   TREASURE  SEEKERS     .....  241 

A   LIFE       .......  .251 


PACK 

3 
15 
35 
49 
67 
87 
103 
139 


PILGRIM  SORROW. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IOUMANIA,  Bulgaria,  Servia,  and  the 
other  new  countries  situated  in  the 
far  East  of  Europe,  are  so  apt 
to  be  associated  in  our  minds  with  the 
tiresome  and  unanswered  Eastern  question, 
that  we  certainly  give  both  land  and  people 
less  attention  than  many  of  them  deserve. 
And  not  least  interesting  among  them  all  is 
Roumania,  which  during  the  Turkish  war 
gained  for  itself  the  respect,  and  admiration  of 


its  stronger  brothers  and  sisters ;  and  which 
has,  in  a  graceful  fairy  tale,  been  described  as 
"the  spoiled  child  of  Europe"  by  the  lady 
who  sits  upon  its  throne.  Writing  fanciful 
stories,  aphorisms,  novelettes,  and  poems  is 
this  queen's  delight,  and  she  has,  within  the 
short  time  since  she  began  to  publish,  acquired 
for  herself  a  name  among  German  authors. 
For  she  writes  in  German,  which  is  her  native 
tongue,  and  under  the  pseudonym  of  Carmen 
Sylva,  in  which  she  seeks  some  reminiscence 
of  the  forests  that  were  her  earliest  and  dearest 
friends.  It  was  amid  the  green  woods  and 
the  vine-clad  hills  of  the  Rhine  that  her  young 
intelligence  was  unfolded  ;  she  was  born  in  this 
much-sung  region,  indeed  in  its  fairest  part, 
and  has  a  true  German's  pride  in  that  noble 
river.  As  a  child  she  sat  for  hours  upon  the 


lap  of  the  aged  patriot-poet,  E.  M.  Arndt, 
and  he  stimulated  in  her  that  love  of  her 
native  land  which  was  also  hers  by  birthright,  for 
her  princely  forefathers  had  fought  and  suffered 
in  the  cause  of  German  liberation,  and  had 
never  joined  the  Confederation  of  the  Rhine. 
Carmen  Sylva,  or,  more  properly,  Queen 
Elizabeth  of  Roumania,  is  the  only  daughter 
of  Prince  Hermann  of  Wied  Neu-Wied,  a  tiny 
principality  situated  between  Coblenz  and 
Andernach ;  and  here,  surrounded  by  a  de- 
voted, simple,  and  cultured  family,  she  spent 
her  girlhood,  whose  quiet,  even  course  was  only 
interrupted  at  rare  intervals  by  visits  to  the 
Berlin  court  and  travels  with  her  aunt,  the 
Grand  Duchess  Helena  of  Russia.  Her  parents 
were  anxious  she  should  be  taken  out  of  the 
mournful  home  surroundings,  where  Sorrow 


had  taken  up  an  abode  she  rarely  quitted. 
Sickness  and  suffering  among  those  around  her 
had  made  Princess  Elizabeth  early  acquainted 
with  pain. 

In  the  last  number  of  the  present  cycle  the 
reader  may  notice  that  the  tone  changes 
and  becomes  elegiac  and  subjective.  Though 
slightly  veiled,  it  is  impossible  to  ignore  that 
this  is  an  autobiography,  that  the  soul  of  the 
queen  is  laid  bare  before  us  ;  and  a  fair  and 
noble  soul  it  is.  Indeed,  those  who  are  best 
acquainted  with  the  details  of  her  life,  can 
best  see  how  exactly  they  have  been  repro- 
duced. There  is,  to  begin  with,  her  undaunted 
courage  and  desire  to  know,  her  love  of  music, 
in  which  she  attained  a  certain  proficiency 
under  the  tuition  of  Madame  Schumann  and 
Rubinstein,  but  whose  execution  she  has  had 


to  abandon  owing  to  weakened  health,  though 
the  listening  to  music  remains  to  her  a  source 
of  keen  delight  and  enthusiasm.  The  woods 
that  surrounded  her  castle  home  were,  as  we 
have  seen,  her  earliest  and  most  intimate 
friends,  to  whom  she  confided  all  her  childish 
griefs  and  aspirations,  who  alone  were  allowed 
to  listen  to  the  lyrics  she  sang  and  penned  in 
secret,  who  told  her  fairy  tales  in  the  rustling 
of  their  leaves,  and  who  comforted  her  sorrows. 
At  the  age  of  eleven  (not  two  years,  as  the  fable 
says)  it  was  her  lot  to  witness  the  nobly  borne 
death  struggles  of  a  most  gifted  and  lovable 
younger  brother,  whose  memory  has  remained 
to  her  a  religion,  and  whose  life  she  has  writ- 
ten for  her  family,  illustrated  with  over  t\vo 
hundred  paintings  from  her  own  pencil.  For 
five  years  after  the  boy's  death  her  mother  was 


prostrated  upon  a  couch  of  sickness,  while  the 
Prince,  her  father,  was  a  permanent  invalid, 
suffering  from  chronic  lung  disease  that  grew 
yearly  more  hopeless.  Her  girlhood's  friend, 
too,  "  the  fair  maiden  flower,"  she  saw  fade  and 
die.  No  wonder  her  eyes  grew  weak  with 
weeping  !  It  was  then  she  was  sent  traveling 
to  distract  her.  While  at  St.  Petersburg  she 
had  a  severe  attack  of  typhus  fever,  and  before 
she  was  convalescent  she  was  told  that  during 
her  absence  her  beloved  father  had  been  laid 
in  the  grave.  Then  she  grew  homesick  for  the 
old  house  in  which  she  had  seen  so  many  die, 
and  for  a  long  time  she  was  sad  and  weary  of 
her  life.  "  Must  every  thing  I  love  be  borne 
to  the  grave?"  she  asks  in  a  plaintive  little 
song,  written  in  her  diary  at  that  time.  In 
poetry  she  found  her  only  outlet,  her  only  con- 


MvaAnctian. 


solation  ;  but  as  yet  she  did  not  publish  ;  these 
utterances  were  for  herself  alone,  to  give  her- 
self relief  and  voice.  Then  at  last  she  was 
aroused  to  work  and  duty  by  the  claims  of 
matrimony,  which  for  a  long  while  she  had  re- 
sisted. Her  desires  had  not  been  towards 
marriage,  and  she  had  once  playfully  said  that 
the  only  throne  that  could  tempt  her  would  be 
that  of  Roumania ;  there  she  could  find  some- 
thing for  her  hand  to  do.  In  1869  Prince  Charles 
of  Hohenzollern  asked  her  to  be  his  bride,  and 
share  with  him  that  newly-founded  throne. 
And  here  she  did  find  the  work  "  mountains 
high,"  of  which  Sorrow  tells  her;  and  how 
nobly,  admirably,  wisely  she  has  attacked  these 
labors,  what  she  has  done  and  does  towards 
civilizing  and  educating  her  half-barbarian  sub- 
jects, that  lives  in  their  hearts,  is  repeated  by 


their  tongues,  and  has  already  found  echo  in 
song  and  story. 

There  stands  in  the  public  place  of  Bucharest 
a  statue  representing  the  queen  in  the  act  of 
giving  a  draught  of  water  to  a  wounded  soldier. 
It  was  subscribed  for  by  the  wives  of  the  offi- 
cers of  the  Roumanian  army,  and  intended  as 
an  enduring  testimonial  of  their  gratitude  to 
her-  whom  the  popular  voice  names  muma  ran- 
tilor,  that  is,  mother  of  the  wounded.  For 
what  she  did  during  the  war  of  1877-78  is  un- 
forgotten,  unforgetable,  by  her  subjects.  She 
met  every  train  of  wounded  that  came  from 
the  battle-field,  she  organized  hospitals  and 
convalescent  homes,  she  was  present  at  opera- 
tions, she  comforted  the  dying  and  wept  with 
the  survivors.  No  wonder  her  people  adore 
her,  no  wonder  that  it  is  greatly  due  to  her  that 


King  Charles  is  a  popular  sovereign  although 
he  reigns  over  a  people  alien  to  him  in  blood 
and  language.  "You  will  have  a  noble  mis- 
sion," he  said  to  her  on  the  day  of  their 
betrothal;  "you  must  comfort  tenderly  when 
I  have  been  too  harsh,  and  you  may  petition 
for  all." 

But  even  after  her  marriage  Sorrow  did  not 
depart  from  Carmen  Sylva's  side.  She  was  to 
know  the  joy  of  being  a  mother ;  but  not  for 
many  years,  as  she  says,  was  this  high  dignity 
to  be  hers.  She  had  to  see  the  grave  close 
over  her  child's  golden  head,  and  no  other  has 
ever  come  to  comfort  her  for  this*  loss.  Her 
greatest  treasure,  her  greatest  earthly  happi- 
ness, and  all  her  hopes  were  buried  with  this 
little  girl.  The  sorrow  that  sprung  thence 
made  her  truly  a  poet  and  an  author.  She 


1  2 


translated  and  published  the  Roumanian  nur- 
sery songs  that  had  been  beloved  of  her  child, 
hoping  that  other  children  in  her  distant  Ger- 
man home  might  love  them  too.  She  put  into 
verse  the  delicate  little  sayings  of  her  babe,  but 
those  have  not  been  permitted  to  see  the  light 
of  day  ;  she  poured  into  song  the  whole  depth 
and  agony  of  her  grief.  And  after  having  years 
ago  renounced  all  such  hopes,  she  found  that 
Sorrdw  had  made  her  an  artist,  and  that  the 
world  cared  to  listen  to  her  speech. 

Since  1878  the  queen's  pen  has  been  most 
productive,  although  indeed  what  she  has  given 
to  the  public  was  not  all  written  since  that  date. 
The  stories  here  reproduced  in  English  dress 
quickly  gained  for  her  warm  friends  upon  the 
Continent,  many  of  whom  asked  themselves, 
how  comes  it  that  a  woman  who  occupies  a 


13 


throne  beside  a  beloved  husband  ;  who  is 
young,  beautiful,  and  courted  ;  who  surely  has 
beheld  life  only  from  its  most  brilliant  side, 
can  have  looked  so  deep  into  the  human  soul, 
and  learnt  to  know  so  well  its  woes  and 
struggles  ?  The  answer  lies  in  the  brief  sketch 
I  have  above  given  of  her  life.  She  has  drunk 
deep  from  the  cup  of  suffering,  and  therefore 
she  could  write  the  tales  of  "  Pilgrim  Sorrow." 

H.  Z. 
London, 

October,  1883. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  SUN. 


Cbe  Cbilb  of  tbe  Sun, 


IFE  was  a  radiant  maiden,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Sun,  endowed  with  all 
the  charm  and  grace,  all  the  power 
and  happiness,  which  only  such  a  mother 
could  give  to  her  child.  Her  hairs  were  sun- 
beams, her  eyes  gleaming  stars.  Flowers 
dropped  from  her  hands,  seeds  sprang  into  life 
from  beneath  her  footsteps  ;  sweet  scents  and 
songs  of  birds  floated  around  her;  from  her  lips 
uncounted  songs  welled  forth.  Sounds  like  the 
gurgling  of  a  thousand  streams  were  heard 


1  8 


from  out  her  garments,  and  yet  they  were  only 
made  of  flower  petals  and  covered  with  tender 
webs,  in  which  numberless  dew-drops  twinkled. 
Glow-worms  encircled  the  royal  brow  like  a 
diadem  ;  birds  bore  her  train  over  rough  paths. 
When  her  foot  touched  thorns  they  grew  green 
and  blossomed  ;  when  she  laid  her  soft  hand 
upon  the  bare  rock  it  became  covered  with  moss 
and  fern.  The  Sun  had  bestowed  on  her  glori- 
ous child  power  over  all  things,  and  as  compan- 
ions and  playfellows  she  had  given  to  her  Hap- 
piness and  Love.  In  those  days  there  was 
much  joy  and  blessedness  on  earth,  and  no  pen 
can  recount,  no  pencil  paint,  how  glorious  it  all 
was.  It  was  just  one  eternal  May  clay,  and  the 
august  mother  looked  down  from  afar  upon 
her  daughter's  glad  games,  and  blessed  the 
earth  upon  which  her  child  was  so  happy. 


glue  ®Mltf  jot  tlx*  %nn.  19 

But  deep  down  in  the  earth  there  lived  an 
evil  spirit  called  Strife.  The  Kobolds  brought 
him  news  of  all  the  beauty  that  was  outside, 
and  of  the  young  sovereign  who  reigned  so 
proudly  and  lovingly  over  the  whole  world, 
and  who  played  so  sweetly  with  Happiness  and 
Love.  First  he  was  angry  at  the  tidings,  for 
he  desired  to  be  sole  ruler  of  all  things  ;  but 
after  a  while  a  great  curiosity  took  hold  of  him 
— and  something  beside,  something  hot  and 
wild,  he  knew  not  himself  what.  Only  he 
wanted  to  get  outside  at  all  costs.  So  he  be- 
gan to  move  a  mighty  rock  from  the  center  of 
the  earth,  and  he  cast  it  up  on  high*  Then  he 
kindled  a  great  fire,  so  that  all  the  rocks  and 
the  metals  above  him  melted  and  poured  their 
glowing,  scorching  streams  over  the  paradise  of 
earth.  And  in  the  midst  of  these  flames  Strife 


rose  up,  clothed  in  dazzling  armor,  with  flowing 
locks  and  contracted  brows.  In  his  hands  he 
held  a  great  block  of  stone,  and  he  peered 
around  him  with  his  piercing  black  eyes,  seek- 
ing what  he  should  destroy  first.  But  of  a 
sudden  he  let  fall  the  rock,  crossed  his  arms 
over  his  breast,  and  stared  down  upon,  the  gar- 
den of  earth,  like  one  in  a  dream.  He  stood 
thus  a  long,  long  while,  gazing  down,  silent 
with  wonder,  like  to  a  statue.  Suddenly  he 
struck  his  brow  with  his  fist. 

"  What  !  I  have  lived  down  there,  among 
cold  stones,  in  the  darkness,  and  outside  is  such 
beauty!  What  must  the  sovereign -be  like  to 
whom  all  this  belongs  ?  " 

The  thought  brought  life  once  more  into  this 
Titanic  figure.  He  stepped  with  giant  strides 
down  into  the  blooming,  scented  world,  treading 


©Mid  xrf  tfte 


through  it  like  a  storm-wind,  stamping  down  the 
flowers,  breaking  down  the  trees,  without  know- 
ing it.  He  must  find  the  mistress  of  all  this  fair 
earth.  He  even  passed  across  the  sea,  making 
it  pile  up  waves  tower  high,  and  once  more  he 
climbed  a  lofty  mountain,  in  his  hot  impatience 
to  gain  a  survey.  Then  he  saw  upon  a  meadow- 
side  that  which  he  sought  so  ardently.  Resting 
her  foot  upon  cloudy,  silver-feathered  flower 
seeds,  her  garments  gathered  up  around  her, 
Life  was  floating  by  upon  her  journey  from 
flower  to  floAver,  singing  as  she  went.  Upon  her 
shoulders  twittered  a  pair  of  birds ;  upon  her 
finger  she  bore  a  bee,  to  whom*  she  showed 
where  the  best  honey  lay  hid.  She  had  left 
Love  behind  her  in  a  wood,  busy  building  a 
nest,  while  Happiness  was  sleeping  upon  a 
mossy  bed  beside  a  waterfall,  after  having  played 


antics  innumerable.  Therefore  Life  was  float- 
ing forth  alone,  singing  a  morning  carol  to  her 
mother  the  Sun.  Of  a  sudden  she  beheld  some- 
thing gleam  and  glitter  in  front  of  her,  and 
when  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  saw  Strife  planted 
before  her,  gazing  at  her  fixedly.  His  bright 
armor  reflected  her  glistening  tresses.  Life 
quailed  at  the  sight  of  this  mighty  man  with 
the  burning  eyes,  her  foot  slipped  from  its 
seed-cloud,  which  sped  on  without  her.  She 
would  have  fallen  had  she  not  grasped  a  birch 
branch  and  slid  herself  down  by  it  upon  a 
mossy  rock. 

"Aha!"  cried  Strife,  "have  I  found  you  at 
last,  you  who  dispute  my  empire,  you  who 
wield  the  scepter  here  on  earth  ?  Who  are 
you,  little  maiden,  who  venture  upon  such 
liberties?" 


xrf  tft*  ^uw.  23 


These  haughty  words  restored  to  Life  all  her 
pride  and  loftiness. 

"  I  am  the  child  of  the  Sun,  and  the  earth  is 
mine  ;  it  was  given  to  me  by  my  royal  mother, 
and  all  bends  before  my  power." 

Speaking  thus  she  threw  back  her  fair  head 
proudly,  so  that  the  Sun  lighted  up  all  her  face. 
Strife  saw  it  and  was  drunk  with  love. 

"  If  I  overcome  you  so  that  you  are  mine, 
then  you  and  the  earth  will  both  belong  to  me." 

"Try,"  said  Life,  "I  am  stronger  than  you." 

"  I  am  to  wrestle  with  you,  you  tender  flower! 
Well,  if  I  do  so  I  must  put  aside  my  armor,  or  I 
shall  crush  you." 

And  he  did  so,  laying  his  shield  and  armor 
upon  the  grass.  Then  he  sprang  at  her  to  en- 
circle her  waist  and  to  lift  her  into  the  air.  But 
at  that  moment  roses  sprang  forth  from  her 


24 


girdle,  and  their  thorns  pricked  him  so  sharply 
that  he  had  to  let  her  go.  He  tried  to  catch 
her  by  the  hair,  but  this  scorched  him.  Then  he 
tore  off  his  golden  chain  and  tried  to  bind  her 
hands  with  it.  She  only  bowed  her  head  ;  then 
the  chain  melted  in  his  grasp.  Suddenly  he 
felt  his  wrists  clasped  by  her  tender  fingers.  He 
tried  to  shake  her  off,  but  she  would  not  let  go. 
He  lifted  her  from  the  ground  ;  she  only  floated 
but  would  not  let  him  loose,  and  as  often  as  she 
grew  weary  the  Sun  gave  her  new  strength. 
Then  he  strove  to  draw  her  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees  ;  but  these  inclined  to  one  side  that 
the  Sun  might  protect  her  darling.  A  whole 
day  did  this  wrestling  last.  At  last  Strife  saw 
that  the  Sun  inclined  towards  setting,  and 
though  she  lingered  she  had  to  depart.  Then 
Life  lost  her  strength,  but  Strife  grew  doubly 


ife*  %nn.  25 


strong.  He  shook  her  off  and  rushed  upon  her. 
Soon  her  garments  lay  torn  upon  the  sward,  her 
hair  lost  its  scorching  might,  and  before  dawn 
broke  the  chaste  maiden  knelt  trembling  and 
red  with  shame  upon  the  earth,  entreating  for- 
bearance and  mercy  with  sobs  and  tears.  At 
this  Strife  set  up  a  laugh  that  made  the  earth 
quake,  and  the  rocks  re-echoed  it  like  to  peal- 
ing thunder. 

Terrified,  Life  sank  to  earth  in  a  swoon. 
Strife  raised  her  high  in  air  in  his  mighty  arms 
and  bore  her  away.  Her  lovely  head  was  bent 
back,  her  hair  swept  the  ground,  her  lips  were 
half  opened  as  though  no  breath  were  in  them, 
the  wondrous  limbs  that  had  resisted  him  so 
long  hung  faint  and  powerless,  and  wherever  he 
bore  her  there  the  grass  faded,  the  leaves  de- 
cayed and  fell  from  off  the  trees,  and  there 


26  H?tJ0*;tra 


blew  a  storm  wind  that  froze  the  limbs  of 
Life. 

"  Wait,"  said  Strife,  and  he  covered  her  with 
kisses  ;  "  you  shall  warm  at  my  fires.  Only  I  must 
hide  you  from  the  Sun  or  I  shall  lose  you  again." 

And  he  vanished  with  her  into  the  mountains. 

The  whole  earth  grew  barren  and  desolate, 
the  birds  sang  no  more,  the  flowers  drooped, 
only  on  the  spot  where  Life  had  sunk  down 
fainting  there  bloomed  some  crocuses  ;  but 
even  these  could  not  endure.  The  Sun  grew 
pale  with  grief,  and  wept  and  beckoned  with  a 
white  sheet  that  fell  upon  the  earth  and  dis- 
persed into  thousands  of  tiny  fragments,  while 
the  mountains  upon  which  Strife's  armor  had 
lain  became  ice  for  all  time. 

When  Love  and  Happiness  found  that  they 
had  lost  Life  they  began  to  roam  the  world  in 


27 


search  of  her,  asking  all  things  after  their  be- 
loved companion.  They  no  longer  recognized 
their  earth  garden  in  its  changed  form,  and  they 
wept  bitterly.  They  wandered  past  hill  and 
dale,  alo.ngside  the  rivers  that  lay  frozen  and 
ice-clad,  and  they  called  aloud  for  Life,  for  they 
deemed  that  they  must  find  her.  One  day  they 
leant  wearily  against  a  tall  rock,  when  of  a  sud- 
den they  heard  a  sound  within  it  as  of  gurgling 
waters.  Flushed  with  joy  they  looked  at  one 
another  and  both  exclaimed  :  "  Here  she  is, 
here  ;  we  hear  sounds  of  Life,"  and  they  began 
to  touch  the  rock  and  to  call  and  listen  round 
about  it,  until  they  found  an  opening  whence  a 
spring  gushed  forth.  Softly  they  called  "  Life," 
and  there  she  stood  before  them,  joyless,  down- 
cast, with  weary  steps,  laying  her  finger  upon 
her  lips. 


28 


"  My  lord  slumbers,  do  not  wake  him,"  she 
whispered  sadly. 

"  Dear  Life,  come  out  with  us  ;  your  garden 
is  bare,  your  mother  is  pale,  and  we  have 
roamed  so  long  in  search  of  you.  Oh,  come 
forth  once  more." 

And  they  drew  Life  forth  with  them,  and  as 
she  took  the  first  step  outside  snowdrops 
peeped  up,  and  at  her  next  step  violets  bloom- 
ed, and  as  she  laid  her  weary  hand  upon  a  tree 
the  buds  swelled  and  broke  into  leaf. 

"Behold,"  cried  Love  and  Happiness,  "you 
still  have  your  old  might.  Oh,  do  be  joyous! 
Look  up  at  the  Sun  that  she,  too,  may 
laugh." 

But  when  the  Sun  saw  her  child  so  weak  and 
weary,  she  could  not  refrain  from  weeping, 
though  she  strove  to  smile  and  warm  her 


©Mlfl  jjf  tfoje  %nn.  29 


daughter  with  her  hot  rays.  Again  and  again 
she  had  to  press  her  cloud-sheet  before  her 
eyes,  and  then  her  tears  dropped  down  upon 
the  earth.  Life  still  crept  along,  but  wearily. 
Then  came  a  swallow. 

"  Hold  on  to  my  wings,  dear  Life  ;  I  will 
bear  you  a  bit  ;  "  and  thus  she  once  more  floated 
through  the  blue  air,  until  the  swallow  was  tired. 
Then  the  stork  came  and  said  — 

"  Kneel  on  my  back  and  put  your  arms 
round  my  neck  ;  I  will  carry  you  further." 

And  he  bore  her  far,  far,  and  wherever  he 
alighted  a  babe  was  born,  and  Love  and  Hap- 
piness followed  in  their  wake,  and  dwelt  beside 
the  child.  And  the  whole  earth  grew  green 
and  bright.  The  birds  sang  again,  and  every 
sunbeam  gave  new  power  to  Life,  so  that  once 
more  she  could  stand  on  the  mountain  tops,  a 


30  «?il0:eira  Jkrotxrw. 

blooming,  splendid  woman,  full  of  grace  and 
majesty,  with  earnest  eyes  and  serious  mouth, 
her  hands  filled  with  the  fruits  that  should  make 
rich  the  world. 

But  deep  down  in  the  earth,  Strife  who  had 
awoke  long  ago,  sought  for  his  absent  wife.  He 
stormed  out  into  the  world,  and  every  where  he 
beheld  her  traces,  but  herself  he  could  not  find. 
How  many  of  her  gifts  did  he  not  destroy  in 
his  wild  haste !  Sometimes  he  would  halt 
puzzled,  piercing  the  distance  with  his  stern 
looks.  Ay,  he  was  near  despairing,  for  she, 
from  whom  he  could  no  longer  live  apart,  fled 
from  him  ever.  Now  a  tree  hid  her  with  his 
foliage,  now  a  bird  in  his  nest,  now  a  flower 
beneath  its  leaves,  now  the  mist  in  its  veil ;  and 
if  he  came  too  near  to  her  an  eagle  would  bear 
her  on  his  pinions  up  to  the  Sun,  until  Strife  had 


glue  ®Mld  xrf  tlxje  gnu.  31 

swept  past  below,  when  she  returned  endowed 
with  new  power  and  glory.  But  at  last,  at  last, 
he  did  catch  sight  of  her  as  she  was  pressing  a 
vine  wreath  upon  the  locks  of  Happiness,  and 
sending  a  gleam  from  her  forehead  into  the  eyes 
of  Love.  Then  he  stepped  before  her,  looked 
at  her  and  beckoned.  He  must  have  done 
something  to  her,  for  of  pride  and  resistance 
there  was  no  longer  a  trace.  He  strode  before 
her  without  looking  round,  and  she  bowed  her 
lovely  head  and  followed  him  ;  and  when  her 
comrades  would  have  held  her  back,  she  only 
beckoned  with  her  hand,  and  steppe^  after  him 
silently,  wrapped  in  robes  of  mist  that  swept 
the  falling  leaves,  and  was  like  to  an  echo  of 
the  gurgling  that  had  once  sounded  in  her  robes. 
She  went  into  the  mountain,  bearing  with  her 
fruits  and  grapes,  that  the  Kobolds  pressed  into 


32 


wine  with  which  they  made  to  themselves  merry 
days. 

And  she  brought  forth  two  children,  a  boy 
and  a  maid.  Both  were  very  pale,  and  had 
large  dark  eyes.  The  boy  had  something  wild 
about  him,  Kke  his  father,  the  maid  was  tender 
like  her  mother  ;  she  was  named  Sorrow,  but  he 
was  called  Death.  Sorrow  did  not  remain  long 
in  her  rocky  home.  She  had  inherited  from 
her  mother  a  yearning  for  earth,  and  from  her 
father  a  ceaseless  unrest.  So  she  wandered  ever 
backwards  and  forwards  upon  the  earth,  and 
never  returned  to  her  home.  The  boy  followed 
now  his  father,  now  his  mother,  now  his  sister, 
and  he  made  all  still  and  dead  upon  their 
paths  ;  the  birds  grew  still  and  dead,  the  ears  of 
corn  grew  empty,  the  children  pale;  still  and 
dead  all  who  struggled  and  suffered. 


OTMld  #f  tfte  Jim.  33 


His  mother  could  only  behold  him  with  a 
shudder  ;  he  inspired  his  father  with  malicious 
joy,  but  only  his  sister  loved  him.  She  ever 
called  him  to  her,  and  wept  when  he  would  not 
come.  One  day  he  said  to  Sorrow,  "  I  must 
kill  my  mother  ;  ay,  if  she  only  looks  at  me  she 
is  dead.  But  she  ever  turns  aside  from  me." 

Sorrow  was  terrified  at  these  words,  and  did 
all  in  her  power  to  turn  the  mother's  gaze  from 
the  son.  But  she  ever  felt  his  might,  and  could 
no  longer  play  with  Love  and  Happiness  as 
formerly.  They  both,  too,  feared  Life's  awful 
son  even  more  than  her  grim  spouse,  for  over 
him  they  had  learnt  to  exert  a  certain  power; 
he  grew  quieter  in  their  presence.  But  Death 
remained  ever  inexorable  ;  his  glance  now 
scorching  like  the  simoon,  now  numbing  like 
the  north  ;  even  the  Sun  lost  her  strength 


34 


before  this  terrible  boy,  for  he  laid  night  upon 
all  eyelids,  and  froze  all  things  living. 

Since  that  time  there  is  an  end  of  the  earth's 
paradise.  That  is  why  Life  is  no  longer  a 
radiant  maiden,  but  a  grave  woman,  full  of 
useful  power,  of  stern  demands  on  that  which 
she  has  created.  She  cannot  forget  how  fair 
all  was  once,  and  fain  would  see  it  thus  again, 
notwithstanding  Strife  and  Sorrow  and  Death. 
She  would  fain  be  stronger  than  all  these  three, 
and  yet  she  must  succumb  and  begin  again 
anew,  to  succumb  again,  ever  and  ever. 


SORROW. 


Sorrow, 


was  a  lovely  slender  child, 
with  dark  hair  that  framed  her  pale 
face.  Her  delicate  lips  were  nearly 
always  closed,  her  black  eyes  looked  deadly 
weary,  so  that  none  could  behold  her  without 
weeping.  The  poor  child  had  no  home,  and 
wandered  restlessly  from  place  to  place.  Now 
she  entered  the  hut  of  the  poor,  now  the  palace 
of  the  rich.  She  was  so  silent  and  sad  that  all 
received  her,  but,  strange  to  tell,  all  who 
looked  at  her  were  attacked  with  a  great  woe. 

85951 


38  |l?tX0*ira 


One  lost  his  only  child,  another  his  honor,  his 
property,  a  third  was  pursued  by  enemies  with- 
out a  cause.  Again,  another  knew  but  grief 
from  his  children,  so  that  he  grew  gray  before 
his  time.  Or  strife  arose  between  married  folk, 
or  one  of  the  family  fell  prone  upon  a  sick  bed 
and  did  not  arise  thence  for  years.  People  looked 
at  one  another  astounded  whence  came  so 
much  affliction,  and  knew  not  that  they  them- 
selves opened  the  doors  to  pale,  silent  Sorrow, 
and  called  her  to  their  table.  Sometimes  the 
poor  child  came  back  by  the  same  road  and 
learnt  what  terrible  gifts  she  had  bestowed. 
Then  she  avoided  fora  long  time  visiting  at  the 
same  houses;  but  she  had  grown  to  love  some 
people,  and  longed  to  see  them,  and  did  not 
notice  that  she  visited  them  too  often.  So 
grief  upon  grief  befell  them,  until  the  sad  child 


39 


took  up  her  staff  and  bade  them  farewell  with 
heavy  heart  and  streaming  eyes.  She  went  on 
her  road  quietly,  not  in  haste,  not  hurriedly, 
and  yet  her  step  was  faster  than  the  mountain 
stream,  faster  than  the  west  wind,  so  that  at 
last  she  came  to  lodge  with  every  human  being. 
It  was  most  terrible  when  she  attached  her- 
self to  children.  Then  the  poor  little  things  got 
long  illnesses  or  even  became  orphans,  and  their 
pretty  faces  grew  pale  and  delicate,  like  to 
Sorrow's  face,  and  their  eyes  as  sad  and  heavy. 
.  When  Sorrow  saw  this  she  would  weep  bitterly, 
and  for  a  long  while  would  look  at  no  child,  ay, 
even  turn  her  head  aside  when  children  were  at 
play. 

One  day  she  lay  beneath  an  apple-tree,  and 
saw  how  the  little  apples  had  such  merry  red 
cheeks,  that  it  made  one  glad  to  look  at  them. 


40 


"  Oh,  dear  apple-tree,"  said  Sorrow,  "  give 
me  such  merry  red  cheeks,  then  people  will  like 
better  to  look  at  me." 

"  No,"  said  the  apple-tree,  "  if  you  had  merry 
red  cheeks,  people  would  no  longer  harbor  you 
from  pity." 

She  got  up  sadly  and  pursued  her  road. 
Then  she  came  to  a  garden  hard  by  a  river,  in 
which  there  was  such  song  of  birds  that  it  made 
one's  heart  leap  for  joy. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  little  birds,"  cried  Sorrow, 
"  give  me  some  of  your  lovely  song,  that  I 
may  make  mankind  glad." 

"  No,  dear  child,"  twittered  the  birds  ;  "  if 
you  did  not  come  so  silently  and  go  so  quietly, 
men  would  not  forget  you  so  soon,  and  begin 
to  notice  that  you  are  Sorrow,  and  bring  them 
grief." 


41 


And  yet  further  roamed  poor  Sorrow  and 
came  to  a  tall  wood.  Its  scent  was  delicious, 
and  it  was  so  pleasant  to  walk  on  the  thick 
moss  beneath  the  trees.  Here  and  there  sun- 
gleams  stole  through  the  whispering  foliage, 
and  trembled  and  danced  upon  the  moss,  gild- 
ing the  faded  leaves.  It  was  beautiful  !  The 
child  leant  wearily  against  a  tree. 

"  Here  I  may  lodge  and  bring  no  grief;  here 
I  may  rest,  and  no  one  look  himself  ill  at  me." 

A  sunbeam  came  leaping  through  the  leaves, 
looked  into  the  dim,  lovely  eyes,  sprang  into 
them,  illumined  them  brightly,  and  pierced 
down  into  Sorrow's  very  heart.  The  whole 
wood  saw  the  wonderful  gleaming  of  that  ten- 
der girlish  face,  and  rustled  for  pleasure  and 
admiration.  Sorrow  did  not  know  that  she 
had  grown  more  beautiful,  but  she  felt  the 


42 


sunbeam  tremble  hot  and  joyous  in  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,  dear  wood,"  she  cried,  aloud,  "  give  me 
but  a  single  one  of  all  your  thousand  sunbeams, 
and  I  shall  be  happy." 

Of  a  sudden  all  grew  deadly  still  in  the  wood  ; 
the  trees  looked  at  one  another  sadly,  the  sun- 
beam fled  from  Sorrow's  eyes,  touched  a  lus- 
trous lizard,  and  then  hid  beneath  tall  ferns. 

"  You  poor,  poor  child  !  "  said  an  old  oak  ; 
"  a  single  sunbeam  makes  you  too  beautiful, 
men  would  call  you  too  much  and  often,  and 
then  they  would  have  to  bear  pains  far  beyond 
their  strength.  You  must  remain  without 
cheer  or  warmth." 

Slowly  a  hot  tear  fell  upon  the  woodruff  that 
grew  at  Sorrow's  feet  ;  it  sent  up  sweet  odors 
and  whispered  thanks  for  this  dew. 


43 


But  the  restless  maid  went  further,  and  she 
came  to  a  large  silent  lake.  Here  nothing 
stirred,  only  Evening  stepped  across  the  waters, 
wrapped  in  shade,  while  round  about  him  red 
rays  darted  through  the  lake,  and  here  and 
there  a  star  fell  into  it  and  remained  unmoved 
on  its  quiet  expanse.  Sorrow  dipped  her  hand 
into  the  waters  and  laid  it  on  her  brow.  Even- 
ing came  by  and  whispered,  "  Good-night  ; 
sleep  dreamlessly,  forget  thy  woe."  She  looked 
after  him  long,  and  sighed  softly  — 

"  Once  I  found  rest  in  the  wood  ;  once  I  for- 
got my  woe  when  the  sunbeam  was  in  my 

V 

heart  ;  but  that  is  past." 

Lost  in  dreams,  the  child  gazed  into  the  lake 
whence  blew  cool  airs,  while  the  nixes  floated 
in  mist  across  it. 

Then  Sorrow  perceived  that  a  red  light  fell 


44 


into  the  lake,  larger,  fiercer  than  the  stars,  and 
it  continued  to  gleam  far  into  the  night.  As 
she  lifted  her  eyes,  she  noticed  that  the  light 
came  from  a  house  beside  the  water.  It  was 
thickly  grown  with  ivy,  and  from  its  high- 
pointed  window  that  stood  open  there  shone 
this  light. 

"  Strange,"  thought  Sorrow,  "  I  have  never 
entered  here,  and  yet  there  is  some  one  watch- 
ing yonder." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  window.  There 
sat  a  stately  woman  with  snow-white  locks, 
wrapped  in  a  long  soft  gown.  A  delicate  ker- 
chief was  bound  round  her  forehead.  She  wrote 
sedulously,  with  firm  characters,  in  a  large  book. 
Her  brow  was  marked  with  a  deep  stern  furrow, 
but  about  her  delicate  nostrils  and  lips  there 
were  signs  of  tender  womanliness  and  nobility 


45 


of  heart.  Sorrow  stood  sunk  in  contemplation. 
Then  two  wondrous  gray  eyes  were  uplifted  and 
looked  at  her  calmly,  and  a  deep  melodious 
voice  said  — 

''  Why  do  you  not  come  in,  child  ;  I  have 
waited  for  you  long." 

Sorrow  entered  amazed.  She  did  not  often 
hear  this  greeting.  Of  a  sudden  she  found 
herself  encircled  by  soft  arms,  and  the  wondrous 
woman  took  her  on  her  lap,  kissed  her,  and 
said  — 

"  Dear  Sorrow,  you  had  to  find  me  ;  I  might 
not  seek  you,  for  I  never  come  uncalled.  I  am 
Mother  Patience,  and  I  sit  here  and*  listen  and 
watch.  The  lake  bears  to  me  the  voices  of  all 
those  who  call  me.  Often  and  often  have  I 
stepped  in  your  footprints,  but  alas  !  not  ever." 

The    furrow  in    her    brow  deepened    as   she 


46 


spoke  these  last  words.  Sorrow  laid  her  head 
on  this  motherly  breast. 

"  Oh,  go  with  me,  ever  and  ever,"  she  craved, 
softly. 

"No,  child!  when  you  call  me  then  I  will 
come,  and  when  you  are  weary  turn  in  here.  I 
have  to  write  the  Book  of  Life  ;  that  gives  me 
much  to  do." 

Poor  little  Sorrow  remained  all  night  with 
the  wise  mother,  and  next  morning  she  went 
on  her  journey  refreshed  and  strengthened.  The 
whole  earth  was  blooming  and  green,  for  it  was 
harvest  time.  Sorrow  looked  at  the  poppies 
and  the  corn  flowers  and  thought  — 

"  You  poor  things  !  now  you  are  blooming 
so  merrily  and  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  and 
yet  to-day  you  will  all  be  mown  down." 

Then    she   perceived  a   burly   maiden,  who 


47 


stood  alone  in  a  field,  and  mowed  as  fast  as 
three  men. 

"Good  morning,  pale  one,"  she  called  to 
Sorrow,  in  roguish  tones.  "  Come  here,  and 
help  me." 

And  so  speaking  she  ran  towards  her,  her 
locks  flying  and  her  blue  eyes  laughing  like 
sunshine. 

"  But  who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked,  amazed, 
when  she  saw  Sorrow's  dark  eyes. 

"  I  am  Sorrow,  and  I  must  wander  for  ever. 
And  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  Work  ;  cannot  you  see  that  ?  Do  you 
not  see  how  healthy  I  am,  and  what  strong 
arms  I  have." 

And  with  that  she  took  up  Sorrow  like  an 
infant  upon  her  arms,  and  ran  with  her  all  over 
the  field,  and  laughed  and  shouted  gleefully.  A 


faint  tinge  of  red  came  over  Sorrow's  face  as 
she  said  smiling — 

"  Come  with  me,  do.  I  may  never  rest,  and 
yet  I  am  often  so  weary." 

"  That  may  not  be,  my  little  sister,  for  I  must 
sleep  in  order  to  be  fresh  again  in  the  day. 
But  I  am  in  all  places,  and  must  laugh,  yet 
when  I  see  your  eyes  my  laughter  is  choked. 
But  when  you  call  me  I  will  come,  and  remain 
behind  whence  you  depart,  to  make  the  faces 
glad  again." 

Once  more  Sorrow  stepped  forth  into  the 
glittering  morning  and  into  the  wide  wide 
world.  But  Work  and  Patience  kept  faith  and 
became  her  trusty  companions.  And  many  a 
time  they  met  together  of  an  evening  in  the 
house  by  the  lake,  and  read  out  of  the  Book 
of  Life  or  wrote  in  its  pages. 


THE  REALM  OF  PEACE. 


IRealm  of  peace. 


JEACE  dwelt  within  a  deep,  silent 
mountain  tarn  that  was  unfathom- 
able, yet  reflected,  notwithstanding, 
the  sky's  eternal  blue.  About  it  tall  cliffs 
reared  their  heads,  that  shone  at  eve  with 
rosy  sheen,  while  beyond  it  was  protected 
by  a  dense  forest  in  which  an  ax*  had  never 
sounded.  Neither  Sorrow  nor  Strife  had  ever 
come  in  here  ;  even  the  wind  could  find 
no  entry,  for  the  rocks  had  pushed  them- 
selves forward  so  protectingly  that  Winter  also 


52 


had  to  rest  content  with  shaking  in  lightly 
quite  a  few  of  his  flakes,  for  there  were  warm 
springs  in  the  tarn,  so  Frost  had  no  power  over 
it.  It  was  ever  green  and  flowering  round  about 
the  shore,  and  the  song  of  birds  rilled  the  air. 
When  Peace  lay  floating  on  the  quiet  sur- 
face of  the  tarn  all  the  flowering  and  singing 
streamed  towards  him.  Then  he  would  smile 
blissfully,  and  kiss  the  sunbeams  that  darted 
their  warm  arms  towards  him  ;  ay,  he  would 
encircle  them  and  draw  them  under  the  water 
and  play  hide-and-seek  with  them  behind  the 
trees  and  leaves.  He  was  such  a  glorious  youth 
that  all  things  loved  him  ;  they  loved  his  blue 
eyes,  fathomless  like  the  lake  whence  .  he  arose, 
his  ruddy  lips,  his  wondrous  voice,  his  happy 
laughter.  No  wonder  that  the  sunbeams  sought 
him,  that  the  moss  trembled  with  joy  when  he 


xtf  ^jeace.  53 


stepped  lightly  across  it,  that  the  leaf  trembled 
that  touched  his  brow,  that  the  deer  gazed  long 
into  the  stream  wherein  he  had  seen  his  image, 
that  the  elves  and  nixes  could  only  dream  of  him. 

But  one  day  a  sound  of  weeping  and  sighing 
swept  through  the  forest,  as  though  the  trees 
made  plaint,  and  from  their  leaves  fell  drops  and 
woke  the  fair  sleeper  whom  the  sunbeams  had 
lulled  to  rest.  Amazed,  he  gazed  around  him. 
A  girlish  figure  came  towards  him,  with  pale 
face  and  long  dark  lashes  and  sad,  sad  eyes. 
She  dragged  her  feet  wearily  across  the  moss 
and  sank  down  beside  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked,  astonished. 

"  I  am  Sorrow  ;  Mother  Patience  sends  me  to 
you." 

"Who  is  Mother  Patience?  and  who  is  Sor- 
row ?  I  have  never  heard  of  them." 


54  |?iI0vim 


"  There  is  much  you  have  not  heard  of,  for 
you  do  not  know  the  world." 

Peace  smiled.     "  Do  you  know  it,  then  ?  " 
Sorrow  sighed  and  nodded  her  head. 
"  Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "  am  I  beautiful  ?  " 
Peace  looked  at  her  long,  until  he  had  read 
the  whole  history  of  the  world  in  the  depths  of 
her  solemn  eyes.     Sorrow  felt  so  blissful  as  she 
gazed  at  him,  and   every  hour   she  spent  with 
him  the   poor   maiden    felt  warmer   about  her 
heart,  and  love  entered  into  it  with  all  its  power 
and  might.     When  evening   came    Peace   had 
read  every  thing.     He  shuddered. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  are  not  beautiful." 
Sorrow  felt  her  heart  stand  still.      She  said 
softly  — 

"  Then  you  will  not  go  with  me  ?  " 
Peace  trembled. 


§UjaIm  jjf  giftce.  55 


"  Oh  no,"  he  said,  "  not  with  you.  It  is  so 
lovely  here." 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful,  but  the  wisest  of  women 
bids  me  tell  you  that  your  realm  is  too  small  ; 
you  are  born  to  rule,  and  she  has  read  in  the 
Book  of  Life  that  a  time  will  come  when  you 
shall  reign  over  all  things." 

Peace  looked  thoughtfully  down  into  the 
tarn. 

"  But  if  I  am  satisfied  with  my  kingdom 
here  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  am  not  ambitious,  I  need 
no  fame  and  no  might,  I  have  all  I  require." 

"  But  if  the  whole  world  became  like  this 
holy  spot,  then  it  would  be  yet  *more  beauti- 
ful, and  you  only  need  to  show  yourself  as 
you  are  to  carry  off  the  victory  and  make  it 
so." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Peace,  and  he  look- 


56 


ed  at  her  again  with  his  lovely  eyes,  in  whose 
depths  dwelt  rest  and  purity.  Sorrow's  heart 
stood  still  until  Peace  looked  away  from 
her  into  the  water  and  continued  thoughtfully. 
"I  will  go  and  see  for  myself  whether  the  world 
wants  me  without  having  ever  beheld  my  face. 
If  she  calls  me  I  will  come,  for  I  will  not 
fight  with  her.  Farewell,  Sorrow.  I  will  test  the 
world  to  see  if  I  can  found  my  kingdom  in 
her." 

Sorrow  remained  lost  in  wonder  concerning 
him  long  after  he  had  vanished  from  her  gaze. 
A  bird  flew  over  her  head  towards  the  evening 
sky,  flapping  its  wings  as  it  went.  Sorrow  fell 
on  her  knees  beside  the  tarn.  The  waters  had 
grown  dark,  and  through  the  forest  went  a  sound 
as  of  sighs.  The  poor  maid  trembled  like  a  leaf 
in  the  wind. 


x»f  i?jeaxje.  57 


Here,  in  the  realm  of  Peace,  none  understood 
the  woe  that  shook  her  breast. 

"  You  are  not  beautiful,"  were  the  words  that 
sounded  to  her  from  all  sides  —  out  of  the  wood, 
the  water,  out  of  her  own  heart-beats.  Night 
came  by  gently,  and  sought  her  darling  whom 
she  had  ever  kissed  asleep.  She  only  found 
Sorrow,  and  looked  at  her  gloomily. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  my  Peace  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  threatening  tones. 

"  I  have  fetched  him  away,"  moaned  Sorrow, 
and  wrung  her  hands. 

Night  frowned  yet  more  darkly. 

"In  punishment,"  she  said,  "you  shall 
ever  seek  him  and  never  find  him.  Now 
go!" 

Sorrow  went  forth  like  to  a  moaning  wind 
that  rushes  through  the  trees.  She  wanted  to 


58 


seek  for  Peace  in  the  world.  For  a  long,  long 
while  she  never  visited  Mother  Patience,  for  she 
now  only  thought  of  one  and  had  forgotten  the 
good  mother.  Peace  hovered  over  the  world 
as  a  bird,  and  he  beheld  how  Strife  and  his 
children  had  devastated  it.  He  saw  bloody 
battlefields,  and  at  sight  of  the  first  corpse  he 
grew  so  giddy  that  he  was  near  to  fall  down 
with  awe.  When  he  beheld  murder  his  heart 
grew  sore  in  his  breast,  as  though  he  had  him- 
self been  wounded,  and  he  flew  on,  away  from 
the  scene. 

He  flew  over  a  great  city.  There  he  saw  a 
light  burning  in  an  attic  window.  He  looked 
in.  A  pale  man  sat  there,  and  coughed  and 
wrote  with  long  white  fingers. 

"And  I,  too,  shall  be  great,  ay,  surely,"  he 
murmured  to  himself.  "  I  feel  it  in  my  breast 


59 


like  fire  ;  there  is  a  light  in  my  brain  that  shall 
illumine  the  world." 

"Poor  fool,"  thought  Peace;  "Ambition  is 
hunting  you  to  death  and  you  do  not  know  it." 

From  out  a  vine-wreathed  window  there 
gazed  a  lovely  girlish  head. 

Peace  thought  —  "  She  is  like  my  elves,"  and 
he  flew  in. 

But  how  bitterly  was  he  disenchanted. 
Flowers  and  dresses  lay  about  in  tardy  confu- 
sion, and  the  fair  one  maintained  that  last 
evening  she  had  exceeded  in  charm  all  others 
at  the  ball.  Her  sister  scolded  at  all  balls;  ay, 
said  the  whole  world  was  stupid.  % 

"  I  wish  I  was  that  bird  who  has  just  come 
in,"  she  added. 

"  He,  oh,  he  will  dirty  every  thing  !  "  said  the 
other,  and  chased  him  out  again. 


60 


In  a  lonely  house  there  sat  an  aged  woman, 
and  read  out  of  a  large  Bible.  Deadly  pale  her 
youngest  son  rushed  into  her  room.  He  was 
the  only  one  that  remained  to  her  this  side  the 
ocean,  and  he  asked  her  for  money  ;  he  must  have 
money  or  he  would  shoot  himself.  The  Bible 
fell  from  the  old  woman's  hand,  she  could  not 
help  the  reprobate  any  more  ;  for  though  he 
knew  it  not  she  had  already  sacrificed  to  him 
all  her  little  wealth  and  even  the  very  house  she 
dwelt  in. 

In  a  beautiful  garden  a  nobleman  tended  his 
sickly  daughter  who  needed  air  and  light,  a  very 
angel  of  patience  and  beauty  ;  meanwhile  her 
callous  mother  preferred  the  idle  pleasures  of 
the  drawing-room  to  the  care  of  her  sick  child. 

In  a  field  Peace  saw  a  number  of  lads  and 
maidens  cutting  corn.  They  laughed  and  sang, 


of  i?£axe.  61 


and  threw  down  their  sickles  and  seated  them- 
selves beneath  an  apple-tree  to  enjoy  their  mid- 
day meal  and  rest.  Peace  flew  above  them 
and  settled  among  the  branches  to  listen  to  their 
prattle  until  the  lads  fell  asleep,  while  the 
maidens  continued  to  chatter  softly.  Then  a 
man  came  across  the  field.  He  wore  a  broad 
brimmed  hat,  and  under  it  loomed  forth  his 
dark,  bad  face.  He  woke  the  lads  with  kicks, 
he  threatened  the  maidens  with  his  stick,  called 
them  lazy  and  drove  them  to  their  work. 

Again,  further  on  he  beheld  a  lovely  girl 
given  to  wife  to  a  rich  monster,  notwithstanding 
her  pleadings  and  prayers.  He  saw  sisters  and 
brothers  haggling  over  the  coffin  of  a  father  ; 
even  among  little  children  he  witnessed  strifes 
that  showed  him  that  they  bore  within  them  the 
seeds  of  future  passions. 


62 


Peace  flew  towards  the  south,  where  lovely 
girls  swung  carelessly  in  hammocks,  rocking 
themselves  and  torturing  their  slaves.  He  flew 
to  the  north,  and  beheld  a  large  city  full  of 
light-minded  women  and  unfaithful  men,  who 
rushed  from  one  amusement  to  another  —  now 
on  the  ice,  now  in  the  ball-room,  now  in  sledges, 
now  on  or  behind  the  stage.  He  flew  to  the  far 
west,  and  beheld  a  rushing  and  racing  after 
gain  —  restless,  endless.  He  flew  to  the  east,  and 
saw  noble  men  and  women  working  in  exile  like 
to  day-laborers,  heavy  at  heart  with  cold  and 
home-sickness.  He  flew  into  the  desert,  and 
saw  lonely  travelers  languishing  for  water.  He 
flew  all  over  and  around  the  world,  but  every 
where  he  beheld  the  signs  of  pain  and  struggle. 
So  he  went  back  to  his  mountain  tarn,  and  he 
resolved  never  to  leave  his  little  realm  again. 


of  i?jcajcc.  63 


How  amazed  was  he  to  behold  on  its  shores  a 
great  monastery,  built  of  huge  solid  stones,  that 
made  it  appear  as  though  it  had  stood  there  for 
ages. 

"  I  must  have  been  long  absent,"  thought 
Peace,  as  he  entered  into  the  convent. 

He  stepped  inside  a  wide  stone  cell,  whose  tall 
pointed  windows  looked  out  upon  his  lake  and 
on  the  rosy  shimmering  cliffs  beyond.  A 
young  monk  sat  by  an  organ,  playing  and  sing- 
ing in  heart-moving  tones,  as  if  he  would  com- 
municate to  the  walls  the  storm  that  shook  his 
soul.  An  older  monk  had  risen  from  a  table, 
on  which,  as  also  on  the  floor,  lay  strewn  open 
folios.  He  seated  himself  in  the  window-niche 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Of  a  sud- 
den the  door  was  opened,  and  there  entered  an 
emaciated  monk  with  flaming  eyes.  His  fierce 


64  |[?tl0vira 


regard  rested  sternly  on  the  younger  man. 
Then  he  turned  his  haggard  form  towards  the 
man  in  the  window-niche,  and  pointing  to  the 
door  he  said  — 

"  For  you,  my  son,  these  sounds  are  noxious 
poison,  which  only  strict  penance  can  remedy." 

The  man  addressed  bowed  his  head  and  went 
out. 

"  And  you,  my  son,  sin  daily  by  your  song. 
Your  life  becomes  enjoyment  in  lieu  of  peni- 
tence, and  you  lead  astray  your  brethren  also, 
From  to-day  forward  song  and  organ  are  for- 
bidden you." 

And  he  walked  to  the  instrument,  locked  it, 
and,  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket,  he  went 
away.  The  younger  man  fell  upon  his  knees 
before  the  organ  and  kissed  it  like  a  dead  bride, 
and  then  went  out  into  the  church. 


65 


Peace  leant  against  a  beech-tree  and  wept 
passionately.  "  The  whole  world  is  a  struggle, 
and  they  have  taken  from  me  my  only  home. 
Farewell,  my  silent  lake  !  " 

And  once  more  he  went  out  into  the  world. 

He  came  past  a  churchyard  and  went  in,  go- 
ing from  grave  to  grave  till  he  came  to  the 
chapel,  where  a  woman  knelt  and  sobbed. 

"  Not  even  here,"  said  Peace,  and  turned  to 
go  further. 

Then  he  saw  a  neglected  grave,  all  overgrown 
with  trailing  ivy.  Cross  and  inscription  had 
long  vanished,  the  mound  had  sunk,  only  the 
•ivy  wound  its  arms  lovingly  over  the  forgotten 
spot. 

"  Here  is  my  kingdom,"  said  Peace,  and  he 
sank  down  amon  the  leaves. 


66 


But  Sorrow  yet  roams  the  world  in  search  of 
Peace,  for  she  can  never  forget  him.  Yet,  wher- 
ever she  asked,  wherever  she  sought,  nowhere 
could  she  find  him.  Some  had  seen  him  go  by, 
but  none  had  been  able  to  hold  him.  She  pass- 
ed through  the  church-yard,  and  stepped  by 
the  new  graves,  only  the  neglected  one  she  did 
not  visit. 


EARTH L  Y  PO WERS. 


powers. 


HERE  is  Truth?     I  want   to  go  to 
her,"  said  Strife. 

"  She  lives  in  a  castle  of  rock  crystal, 
high  up  above,  on  the  highest  mountain  in 
the  world,  and  looks  out  thence  on  all  the 
lands,  and  knows  every  thing,  and  whosoever 
attains  thither  finds  everlasting  rest ;  but  I  do 
not  know  the  road." 

So  spoke  a  golden   eagle,  flapped  his  wings, 
and  disappeared  into  immeasurable  heights. 
But  straight  in  front  of  Strife  there  stood  of  a 


70 


sudden  a  little  being,  with  turned-up  nose,  large, 
light,  prominent  eyes  that  only  looked  outwards, 
and  a  half-opened  mouth,  as  though  she  had 
just  spoken. 

"  Whence  come  you  ?"  said  Strife. 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Whither  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  either." 

"  What  do  you  want  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know,  for  my  name  is  Query." 

"  Oh,  you  want  to  know?  Then  perhaps  you 
know  the  road  to  Truth." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,  and  that  is  why  I  do  not  go  on 
it,  for  I  want  to  see  that  which  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  Truth  knows  all." 

"  Oh  no  ;  how  can  she  know  ?  She  sits  up 
there  in  her  castle,  while  I  run  about  and  ask 
and  ask." 


71 


And  she  skipped  about  restlessly  as  she 
spoke.  Seeing  a  flower,  she  stooped  down  and 
asked  — 

"  Why  do  you  grow  here  ?  " 

"  Bah,"  cried  Strife,  impatiently,  and  trod  it 
down.  "  What  do  I  care  about  that  !  You 
are  to  show  me  the  road  to  Truth." 

"That  I  will  not,"  cried  Query,  and  ran 
away. 

With  two  long  strides  Strife  caught  her  up, 
and  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"  I  don't  leave  go  of  you  till  you  have  led 
me  thither." 

"  But  I  don't  know  the  whole  way  ;  I  can 
only  lead  you  as  far  as  Doubt." 

"  Then  lead  me  to  Doubt." 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Query,  defiantly,  and 
tugged  at  the  arm  that  was  captive. 


72 


Strife  grew  enraged.  He  tore  up  stinging 
nettles,  and  lashed  her  with  them  until  she 
promised  to  do  all  that  he  desired.  Then  he 
slung  his  golden  chain  round  her  body,  and 
said — 

"  Now  lead  me  and  I  will  follow." 

Then  she  began  to  lead  him  astray,  on  rough 
paths,  through  shrubs  and  water,  and  over 
rocks,  and  across  the  desert.  At  last  she  stood 
still  and  laughed  at  him  scornfully,  pointing 
out  with  a  titter  the  spot  whence  they  had  set 
forth.  At  this  Strife  grew  so  furious  that  even 
impertinent  little  Query  began  to  tremble.  And 
she  had  reason  to  tremble,  for  he  chained  her 
to  the  nearest  tree  and  lashed  at  her  with  cords 
until  she  could  cry  no  more. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  explain  to  me  how  to 
reach  as  far  as  Doubt,  for  I  will  no  longer  go 


73 


with  you.     But  if  you  deceive  me  again  I  will 
strike  you  dead." 

She  pointed  out  the  road  to  him,  and  he  went 
away  without  looking  back,  leaving  her  tied  to 
the  tree.  She  begged  and  entreated  and  cried 
for  help  in  vain.  His  mighty  form  grew  smaller 
and  smaller,  the  sun  scorched  her  hotter  and 
hotter.  Poor  little  Query  nearly  perished. 
But  the  inquisitive  swallows,  who  were  her 
especial  friends,  saw  her  need,  and  brought  her 
drops  of  water  and  crumbs  of  bread  in  their 
beaks.  This  lasted  until  autumn  came,  and 
they  set  forth  on  their  wanderings.  In  her 
need  she  turned  to  the  wind  for  aid.  "He  began 
to  blow  stronger  and  stronger,  till  he  had 
broken  down  the  tree.  Had  little  Query  not 
been  so  lithe  and  supple,  it  would  have  cost 
her  her  life.  At  it  was,  she  fell  to  the  ground 


74 


numb  with  fear  and  cold.  But  she  soon  roused 
herself,  loosed  herself  free  from  the  stump,  and 
ran  off  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  bear  her,  to 
peer  once  more  with  curious  eyes  into  the 
world. 

Strife  had  reached  Doubt,  who  lived  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  where  stood  the  castle  of 
Truth.  His  house  was  surrounded  by  a  large 
bog,  into  which  countless  persons  had  sunk  who 
had  sought  the  road  to  Truth.  Strife  hewed 
down  a  whole  forest  and  threw  it  into  the  bog, 
and  then  stepped  across  it  to  the  dwelling  of 
Doubt. 

"  Hold  !"  cried  Doubt.  "You  don't  escape 
from  here  without  a  struggle." 

"  That  just  suits  me.  I  came  here  to  wrestle 
with  you." 

So  they  began  to  tussle,  and   they  fought  to- 


75 


gether  for  the  space  of  a  whole  year.  Winter 
came  ;  they  strove  upon  the  ice.  Summer 
came  ;  they  still  contended.  The  wood  that 
Strife  had  thrown  into  the  bog  began  to  sink 
under  the  mighty  bodies,  and  it  sank  deeper 
and  deeper  until  it  threatened  to  engulf  them. 
Then,  at  last,  Doubt  gave  way,  and  said  — 

"  Well  go,  but  it  will  not  be  for  your  happi- 
ness." 

"I  do  not  seek  happiness;  I  seek  Truth," 
said  Strife,  and  began  to  climb  the  mountain. 
The  longer  he  ascended  the  higher  it  seemed 
to  grow;  with  immense  exertion  he  climbed 
from  rock  to  rock.  Beneath  him  a  precipice 
yawned  continually,  and  threatened  to  destroy 
him.  More  than  once  he  had  to  lay  hold  of 
the  stones  and  pull  himself  up  by  them.  A 
block  broke  and  fell  thundering  into  the  deeps. 


76 


From  time  to  time  it  lightened  and  flashed  up 
in  the  heights  ;  that  must  be  the  palace  of 
crystal  which  Strife  had  vowed  to  enter.  After 
new  exertions  he  reached  a  wondrous  lovely 
forest  dell,  surrounded  by  tall,  aspiring  trees. 
Within  was  such  scent  of  flowers,  such  murmur 
of  water,  such  song  of  birds,  that  a  strange 
sensation  came  over  him,  while  straight  in 
front,  upon  a  polished  rocky  point,  something 
shone  like  to  the  sun  itself.  That  was  the 
castle  of  rock  crystal.  Its  thousand  facets 
caught  the  light  and  sunbeams,  and  reflected 
them  up  and  down  in  endless  refractions.  The 
pointed  turrets  reared  themselves  against  the 
clear  ether,  like  ice  upon  which  snow  has  never 
fallen.  It  was  as  though  light  moved  about  in 
it  of  Its  own  will  and  power,  as  though  it  came 
forth  thence,  and  not  from  the  Sun  that  stood 


77 


behind  the  castle.  When  Strife  shielded 
his  eyes  with  his  hand  in  order  to  endure 
the  glare,  a  lovely  maiden,  clothed  only 
in  her  own  golden  locks,  came  forth 
from  the  castle  and  down  the  hill. 
She  had  laid  a  huge  green  leaf  across  her 
shoulders  to  shelter  her  from  the  sun,  and  was 
thus  flooded  with  gold-green  light.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  pitcher  cut  from  a  single  topaz. 
In  it  the  wood,  the  flowers,  arid  her  o\vn  grace- 
ful image  were  reflected.  Strife  watched  her 
as  she  placed  her  small  white  feet  upon  the 
moss,  walking  so  lightly  that  she  left  no  trace. 
She  had  cast  down  her  eyes  as  she'neared  the 
spring.  Then  Strife  came  close,  and  said  as 
gently  as  he  could  — 

"  Give  me  to  drink.     I  am  thirsty." 

She   lifted   her  eyes  with   astonishment  and 


78 


looked  at  the  strong,  dark  man.  To  him  it 
seemed  as  though  heaven  looked  at  him,  so 
deep  blue,  so  clear  and  pure  were  her  eyes. 
The  long  weary  road,  the  fierce  struggles,  ay, 
even  the  goal  that  he  would  reach,  vanished 
from  his  memory  as  he  looked  at  this  impress- 
ive beauty. 

"  Are  you  Truth  ?  "  he  asked,  at  last.  "  If  so 
I  will  worship  you." 

The  rosy  child-mouth  opened. 

"  No,  Truth  is  my  mother  ;  I  am  called  In- 
nocence. Do  you  wish  to  go  to  her  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  no,  no  longer  ;  I  will  stay  with  you, 
for  you  are  more  beautiful  than  all." 

"Am  I  beautiful?"  asked  the  girl  with  sur- 
prise ;  "  my  mother  has  never  told  me  that.  But 
you,  you  are  beautiful,  and  you  look  so  good, 
therefore  you  shall  drink  out  of  my  pitcher." 


79 


When  he  had  drunk  the  draught  he  was 
quite  beside  himself.  He  had  only  one  thought, 
to  win  charming  Innocence  unto  himself. 

"  Come,  play  with  me,  thou  heavenly  child," 
he  said  ;  "  I  can  teach  you  quite  new  games, 
here,  on  this  fair  meadow." 

And  he  made  balls  out  of  flowers  and  threw 
them  at  her,  and  watched  her  movements  as 
she  caught  them  laughing  and  shouting  glee- 
fully. Then  he  made  her  run  and  he  ran  after. 
Then  he  blindfolded  his  eyes  with  leaves,  and 
she  teased  him  till  he  caught  her.  At  last  she 
grew  so  wanton  that  she  bound  him  round  with 
creepers,  upon  which  he  made  as'  though  he 
could  not  stand,  and  let  himself  fall  into  the 
grass.  She  laughed  merrily,  and  strewed  him 
with  flowers  and  leaves  ;  but  when  she  had 
nearly  covered  him,  he  shook  himself  free, 


8o 


sprang  up,  raised  her  high  into  the  air,  and  ran 
with  her  to  the  wood. 

"Mother,  mother!"  called  the  terrified 
maiden. 

Then  the  sun  sank  and  night  covered  all  things. 

Truth  sat  in  her  crystal  castle  and  waited  for 
her  daughter.  She  wondered  where  the  sweet 
child  could  have  strayed,  and  tried  to  behold 
her  as  she  saw  all  things.  But  fear  for  her  own 
flesh  and  blood  troubled  her  vision.  She  passed 
her  hand  before  her  eyes  several  times,  but  she 
clearly  beheld  the  sun  set  and  the  moon  rise  so 
she  could  not  be  blind.  When  the  moon  shone 
down  on  her  castle,  she  heard  quite  distinctly 
her  child's  voice  crying  in  terror,  "  Mother,  my 
mother  !  "  and  the  next  moment,  with  a  fearful 
crash,  the  castle  of  crystal  was  rent  in  twain 
from  top  to  bottom.  Truth  grew  yet  paler 


81 


than  the  moon  that  was  shining  into  her  face. 
She  rushed  down  the  mountain.  The  stream 
sparkled  in  the  moonlight,  and  there  lay  the 
topaz  pitcher  and  a  smell  of  crushed  flowers 
filled  the  air.  The  mourning  mother  stood 
still  and  asked  of  Night  where  was  her  child, 
and  all  the  flowers  began  to  weep  and  drooped 
their  heads  in  sorrow,  and  soon  the  whole 
meadow  was  wet  with  their  tears. 

Truth  went  onward,  petrified,  following  the 
traces  of  her  child  deep  into  the  wood,  where 
the  moon  played  with  the  shadows  and  con- 
jured forth  all  sorts  of  shapes.  She  went  on 
and  on,  till  at  last  she  heard  a  sound  of  weep- 
ing, and  the  next  moment  she  stood  before  her 
daughter,  who  lay  on  her  knees  and  stretched 
out  her  arms  towards  her.  No  one  spoke  a 
word,  even  Night  held  her  breath;  but  the 


82 


eyes  of  Truth  began  to  glow  like  flames  of  fire. 
With  one  look  she  burnt  her  daughter's  hair, 
with  the  next  she  dazzled  Strife,  who  stood  en- 
tranced and  could  only  stare  at  her.  He  felt 
the  pain  of  it  shoot  through  all  his  body,  he 
put  his  hand  up  to  his  eyes,  he  tottered  and 
fell  against  a  tree.  He  wanted  to  see  ;  he  knew 
that  Innocence  was  kneeling  there  in  the  moon- 
light, but  he  was  stone  blind  ;  no  ray  of  light 
was  ever  again  to  illuminate  his  darkness.  At 
last  Truth  spoke  with  deep  resounding  voice  — 

"  My  child,  you  are  torn  from  me  for  ever. 
Up  here  there  is  no  longer  room  for  you.  Oh 
why  did  you  not  obey  ?  I  had  warned  you 
against  every  stranger  ;  you  were  to  speak  to 
none,  to  give  no  answers.  Here,  take  my  cloak; 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  you  will  find  shelter." 

With  these  words  she  turned  and  went  away, 


83 


and  her  sighs  bent  the  crowns  of  the  trees,  and 
grew  to  a  great  storm  that  raged  through  the 
world  like  an  everlasting  plaint.  Strife  stormed 
down  the  mountain  and  howled  with  pain  and 
despair.  Since  that  time  he  has  grown  yet 
more  violent,  for  he  is  blind,  and  rushes  through 
the  world  senselessly,  trying  to  wreak  vengeance 
on  it  for  his  eternal  pain.  Poor  Innocence 
wrapped  the  cloak  round  her  trembling  limbs, 
and  descended  slowly  into  the  valley.  Her  feet 
were  scratched  by  the  rough  stones,  and  her 
tears  flowed  ceaselessly.  A  few  hours  ago  and 
she  had  been  the  most  lovely  flower  on  the 
heights,  and  now  she  was  crushed  and  trodden 
down.  She  came  to  the  haunts  of  men,  and 
knocked  at  their  doors  and  asked  for  alms,  but 
she  got  more  abuse  than  alms.  At  last  she 
came  to  the  spot  where  Doubt  dwelt,  and  one 


84 


stormy  night  she  passed  with  light  foot  over  the 
bog,  not  knowing  that  death  yawned  under  her 
feet.  Doubt  was  amazed  when  he  heard  a  tap 
at  his  door.  Who  could  have  crossed  the  bog 
on  such  a  night  !  There  stood  a  pale  tired 
woman,  and  begged  for  shelter,  and  said  she 
would  not  stay  long. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Doubt. 

"  I  am  called  Innocence." 

Doubt  laughed  a  hard  short  laugh. 

"You  will  not  make  me  believe  that." 

But  as  his  words  made  her  cry  he  grew  very 
somber. 

"  Is  it  Strife  that  has  brought  you  to  this?  Oh 
shame,  oh  everlasting  shame  !  A  curse  on  him 
and  his  search  for  Truth.  It  were  better  he 
had  been  drowned  here." 

And  Doubt  received  Innocence  most  kindly 


85 


and  kept  her  beside  him,  but  he  could  give  her 
no  comfort.  Each  of  his  words  only  made  her 
heart  heavier,  until  at  last  he  told  her  that  she 
would  be  a  mother. 

"  Then  I  shall  die,"  said  Innocence. 

At  the  moment  her  child  was  born  it  glided 
away  like  a  snake,  and  hopped  and  danced  like 
a  will-o'-the-wisp  across  the  bog  of  Doubt. 

"  Oh,  my  child,"  sighed  Innocence,  "  come  to 
me,  only  once." 

Then  she  felt  a  burning  and  glowing  at  her 
breasts  and  a  sucking  that  drained  her  very 
life.  And  while  the  little  being  sucked  it  gained 
charming  form,  and  it  had  eyes  that  shone  now 
black,  now  green.  Innocence  felt  how  it  was 
draining  from  her  all  her  heart's  blood,  and  with 
a  soft  sigh  she  inclined  her  lovely  head  in  death. 
Doubt  buried  her  in  the  silent  bog-  that  covered 


86 


her  with  its  dark  waters.  Then  he  looked  at 
the  child. 

"Shall  I  murder  you,  you  horrid  wretch? 
No  ;  the  world  is  ripe  for  you,  you  shall  live  ; 
go  forth  and  avenge  your  mother!  " 

And  so  saying  he  threw  her  into  the  bog, 
across  which  she  slid  like  an  eel,  and  hopped 
out  into  the  world  to  do  as  much  mischief  in 
it  as  possible. 

Strife  was  her  special  butt  ;  she  tempted  and 
teased  and  provoked  him  incessantly,  and  often 
sent  him  into  towering  rages.  Then  he  tried 
to  wring  her  neck,  for  he  knew  not  that  she  was 
his  daughter.  But  she  always  escaped,  laughing, 
from  the  blind  man,  and  mocked  him. 

The  world  was  enchanted  with  her.  It  lay 
at  her  feet  and  adored  her  as  a  goddess  ;  and 
this  goddess  was  Falsehood. 


THE  INEXORABLE. 


Uneyorabie. 


[HE  sea  was  running  high  and  was 
black  as  night.  Only  the  crests  of 
the  endless  waves  glistened  in  the 
lightning  that  flashed  across  the  heavens.  The 
storm  was  raging  towards  the  land  and  threw 
the  ships  upon  the  rocks,  so  that  hundreds  of 
human  lives  perished  in  the  ocean".  Then  of  a 
sudden  it  seemed  as  though  the  storm  grew  en- 
tangled among  the  cliffs  on  the  shore,  and 
condensed  into  a  form  that  reared  up  tall  and 
pale  against  the  mighty  heavens.  It  was  a 


90 


grave  youth  with  unflinching  black  eyes,  who 
leaned  upon  a  sickle  and  held  an  hour-glass  in 
his  hand.  He  gazed  across  the  waters  with  an 
indifferent  air,  as  though  the  wrecks,  and 
corpses  beneath,  concerned  him  as  little  as  the 
sand  in  his  glass,  which  trickled  down  evenly, 
steadily,  regardless  of  the  blustering  of  the 
storm,  or  the  sudden  quiet.  There  was  some- 
thing iron-like  in  the  youth's  features,  in  his 
eyes  there  lay  a  power  that  destroyed  all  things 
they  looked  upon  ;  even  the  ocean  seemed  to 
be  numbed  by  them,  and  to  grow  silent  with 
fear.  Day  dawned,  and  flooded  with  roseate 
hues  from  the  rising  sun,  Sorrow  came  stepping 
over  the  cliffs.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  to 
the  youth. 

"  Brother,"  she  cried,  "  brother,   what  have 
you  done  !     You  have  raged  terribly,  and  did 


91 


not  hear  how  I  called  you,  ay,  cried  for  you  so 
eagerly." 

"  I  heard  nothing,"  said  Death.  "  I  felt  my- 
self too  quiet,  so  I  roused  myself.  A  few 
vessels  were  lost  in  the  act." 

"O  pitiless  one  !  "  said  Sorrow. 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  your  grief,"  answered 
the  somber  youth  ;  and  turning  from  her,  he 
walked  away.  He  paced  silently  through  the 
sunny  world  ;  it  blew  chill  around  him,  and 
wherever  he  paused  a  silent  shudder  seized  all 
things.  He  went  by  a  house  and  looked  in. 
There  lay  a  man  tortured  with  pain  who  beheld 
him  and  called  him  imploringly  ;  'but  he  only 
shook  his  head  and  went  further.  A  lovely 
young  woman  stood  in  her  garden  surrounded 
by  joyous  children,  her  husband  had  just 
stepped  up  to  her  and  kissed  her.  The  pale 


92 


wanderer  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
beckoned  to  her  ;  she  followed  him  a  few  steps 
and  sank  lifeless  to  the  ground. 

Then  he  came  to  a  forest  in  which  a  pale 
man  was  pacing  hither  and  thither,  tearing  his 
hair  and  gnashing  his  teeth,  crying  — 

"  Dishonored,  dishonored  !  " 

He  saw  the  passer-by  with  the  somber  eyes, 
saw  him  lift  his  white  hand  and  point  to  a  tree. 
The  despairing  man  understood  the  signal. 

He  passed  a  group  of  playing  children,  and 
softly  mowed  the  grass  between  their  feet  with 
his  scythe.  Then  they  bowed  their  heads  like 
broken  flowerets. 

There  an  old  man  sat  in  an  armchair,  and 
was  enjoying  the  warming  sunbeams.  Death 
raised  his  hour-glass  and  held  it  before  his  eyes 
—  the  last  sands  were  running  down. 


93 


He  halted  by  a  stagnant  pool.  No  water 
could  be  seen,  for  it  was  covered  with  green. 
The  rushes  quivered  under  his  cold  breath,  and 
the  toad  that  had  been  croaking  grew  silent. 
Then  the  reeds  rustled  and  a  lovely  woman 
drew  close  to  the  water,  took  something  from  a 
handkerchief  and  threw  it  down.  It  sank  with 
a  faint  gurgle  into  the  ..depths.  Twice  she 
made  a  movement  as  though  she  would  spring 
in  after  it,  but  each  time  Death  extended  his 
scythe  towards  her,  and  she  fled  terrified.  He 
lifted  his  hour-glass  in  which  the  sand  ran  down 
quickly,  hurriedly.  Then  something  white 
came  up  between  the  green  water-plants,  and 
with  wide-open  eyes  a  little  corpse  appeared, 
gazing  at  the  running  sand. 

Then  Death  went  further,  and  across  a  battle- 
field, where  he  mowed  down  many  fine  men. 


94 


At  last  he  came  to  a  lovely  valley  in  which 
autumn  was  reigning  in  all  its  glory.  The  trees 
were  bathed  in  gleaming  gold,  the  sward  be- 
neath was  a  luscious  green,  strewn  with  tender 
flowers.  A  silvery  laugh  came  from  the 
branches  through  which  a  charming  little  figure 
was  floating,  now  hiding  among  the  leaves,  now 
jumping  down  upon  the  grass,  and  at  last  run- 
ning with  lightsome  step,  and  garments  stream- 
ing in  the  breeze,  to  meet  a  stately  man  who 
stood  leaning  on  a  club  beside  a  hillock. 

"  Come  to  me,  fair  Happiness,"  he  cried 
aloud.  "  You  must  go  with  me.  You  are  mine, 
for  I  am  Courage." 

"Must  I?"  said  the  sweet  little  form,  and 
turned  her  back  to  him. 

As  she  did  so  her  eyes,  full  of  beaming  wan- 
tonness and  measureless  roguery,  turned 


95 


towards  the  pale  pilgrim.  He  saw  the  dimples 
that  played  on  her  chin  and  cheeks,  her  neck 
and  her  arm.  Her  whole  slender  figure  was  in- 
wrapt  by  her  light  floating  locks,  which  were 
moved  by  the  softest  breeze,  and  which 
looked  in  the  sunshine  like  falling  gold- 
dust. 

"Yes,"  cried  Courage,  "you  must,  for  you 
love  me.  I  have  found  that  out." 

"  I  love  you  in  this  fair  valley,  and  that  is 
why  I  give  you  smiles  ;  but  if  you  must  go  out 
into  the  world,  you  must  go  alone.  There 
stands  one  who  has  never  yet  spoken  with  me, 
and  he  looks  as  if  he  too  needed  the  gift  of 
smiling." 

"You  can't  give  it  to  him,"  said  Courage. 
"  Do  not  try.  You  will  only  hurt  yourself  with 
his  scythe." 


96 


But  Happiness  had  already  run  up  to  the 
Inexorable. 

"  Shall  I  teach  you  how  to  smile,  you  serious 
youth?  You  seem  to  need  it." 

"  Yes,  I  could  use  it,  for  all  behold  me  un- 
willingly, and  no  one  goes  with  me  unless  he  is 
obliged,  and  it  is  because  I  cannot  smile." 

"Yes,"  said  Happiness,  and  she  grew  quite 
timid;  "but  in  order  to  teach  you  smiling,  I 
must  kiss  you.  That  does  not  seem  to  me  so 
hard,  only  your  eyes  terrify  me." 

"  Then  I  will  close  them,'"  said  Death. 

"  No,  no,  you  are  so  pale,  I  shall  be  still  more 
afraid  ;  and  your  scythe,  too,  is  so  sharp  and 
cold." 

"  Then  I  will  throw  it  from  me." 

And  he  threw  his  scythe  far  away  ;  it  grazed 
the  trees  as  it  fell.  Then  their  golden  foliage 


97 


fell  to  earth,  and  all  the  branches  grew  bare,  and 
as  the  scythe  sank  into  the  grass  it  grew  covered 
with  rime,  and  the  flowers  hung  down  their 
crowns. 

"  Oh,  you  have  spoilt  my  garden  with  your 
ugly  scythe,"  cried  Happiness  ;  "  and  I  was 
going  to  make  you  such  a  lovely  present." 

"  I  did  not  want  to  do  it,  but  the  scythe  flew 
out  of  my  hand,  and  now  I  am  much  sadder 
because  I  have  grieved  you.  You  can  find  new 
gardens,  but  no  one  can  teach  me  how  to  smile. 

"You  shall  learn,  notwithstanding,"  said  the 
fair  maiden,  and  she  stepped  close  to  him  ;  but 
as  often  as  her  rosy  lips  approached  him  she 
grew  so  cold  that  she  fell  back  shuddering. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  imploringly  without 
raising  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  to  hurt  her  by 
a  touch  ;  but  his  gaze  held  her  spellbound  like 


98  |j?il0vira 


a  great  power,  and  she  had  to  kiss  him.  But  at 
the  moment  that  her  lips  touched  him  his  cold 
sank  deep  into  her  heart,  and  she  fell  dead  to  the 
earth.  Courage  sprang  angrily  at  the  pale  youth. 

"  You  have  murdered  my  Happiness." 

"  Was  she  yours?  "  asked  Death,  and  sighed  ; 
"  then  go  after  her  ;  there  she  floats." 

Following  the  indication  of  his  hand,  Courage 
saw  how  the  soft  breezes  were  tenderly  bearing 
away  Happiness  upon  their  wings,  like  to  a  light 
cloudlet.  Courage  hurried  after  them  with 
powerful  steps,  keeping  his  eyes  ever  fixed  on 
that  rosy  cloud. 

Death  stood  and  gazed  until  he  felt  quite 
warm  within,  and  a  tear  ran  slowly  down  his 
pale  cheeks.  He  had  to  learn  for  himself,  what 
as  yet  he  knew  not,  how  it  hurts  if  we  chase 
away  Happiness. 


99 


When  nothing  more  could  be  seen  but  bare 
trees,  faded  grass,  and  withered  flowers,  he  lifted 
his  scythe  and  looked  sadly  around  the  valley, 
as  though  he  expected  it  would  all  bloom  again. 
But  the  earth  remained  dead  and  stark,  so  he 
turned  once  more  to  the  sea.  That  was  rolling 
its  eternal  tides  upwards  and  downwards,  as 
indifferent  as  ever.  But  he  who  stood  above 
and  looked  down  was  no  longer  indifferent.  He 
thought  of  the  maiden  whom  he  had  hurt,  and 
his  yearning  was  as  great  as  the  ocean  at  his 
feet.  And  this  yearning  transfigured  him  to 
wondrous  beauty.  Thus  he  was  seen  of  a  pale 
maiden  with  unkempt  hair  and  torn  garments. 
She  fell  at  his  feet  ;  but  he  was  terrified  by  her, 
and  drew  back  a  pace. 

"Do  you  no  longer  know  me?"  said  the 
maiden.  "  You  used  to  know  me  well,  and  you 


knew  that  I  perished  for  yearning  after  you.  I 
am  Despair.  Have  you  forgotten  that  you 
promised  to  kiss  me,  to  give  me  one  single  kiss? 
It  would  be  happiness  for  ever." 

The  youth's  eyes  grew  dark  as  night,  and  his 
voice  sounded  stern  as  he  said — 

"And  you  dare  to  speak  of  happiness?  Do 
you  know  what  happiness  is?  If  you  come 
near  it  only  once  may  you  be  turned  to  stone  !  " 

"And  if  I  were  to  turn  to  stone,  yet  I  im- 
plore for  a  kiss  from  your  mouth." 

The  youth  shuddered  and  thought  of  the  lips 
that  had  touched  his  and  taught  him  to  smile, 
and  as  he  thought  of  them  he  smiled.  When 
the  maiden  at  his  feet  saw  this,  she  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
breast.  She  did  not  see  the  hate  and  loathing 
that  flashed  from  his  eyes,  but  the  next  moment 


a  hideous  skeleton  grinned  at  her,  and  nearly 
crushed  her  in  his  bony  arms,  and  a  death's-head 
kissed  her. 

Then  the  earth  trembled  and  opened.  Cities 
vanished,  fire  streamed  forth  from  mountains, 
forests  were  uprooted,  rocks  flew  through  the 
air,  the  sky  was  on  fire,  and  the  sea  rolled  in 
upon  the  land.  When  all  was  still  again,  De- 
spair reared  above  the  waters,  an  image  of  stone- 
Death  rushed  away  as  a  storm  wind  to  pursue 
the  rosy  cloud  under  this  disguise. 


WILLL 


mini 

JOTHER  PATIENCE  was  once  again 
sitting  by  her  window  writing.  She 
had  often  been  called  that  day, 
and  had  much  to  confide  to  her  mighty 
folios,  much  too  that  was  good  and  pleasant ; 
that  is  why  an  air  of  cheerful  calm  rested  on 
her  features.  The  whole  room  was,  filled  with 
the  scent  of  lovely  flowers,  and  on  the  hearth 
there  burnt  a  bright  fire  that  threw  magic  lights 
and  shades  upon  the  industrious  scribe.  With- 
out it  was  blowing  cold,  and  like  sharp  needle- 


106 


points  the  frozen  snow  flew  against  the  window 
panes.  A  light  covering  of  ice  lay  over  the 
lake,  firm  enough  to  hold  the  ravens.  The  dis- 
tant road  resounded  hard  and  dry  under  the  quick 
steps  of  shivering  wanderers,  the  wind  sang  mel- 
ancholy tunes  round  the  lonely  little  house,  as 
though  he  would  recount  to  Mother  Patience 
all  the  misery  of  the  earth.  He  shook  and 
tussled  at  the  ivy  that  tenderly  inwrapt  the 
house.  Suddenly  she  stopped  to  listen  ;  a  light, 
well-known  footstep  had  passed  her  window, 
and  the  next  moment  Sorrow  knelt  at  her  feet, 
breathless,  trembling  like  a  hunted  deer. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  mother,  how  terrible. 
Why  were  you  not  there,  then  that  awful  woman 
would  not  have  gone  with  me,  and  it  all  would 
not  have  happened." 

So  speaking  Sorrow  looked  behind  her  fear- 


fully,  as  though  that  pursued  her  that  had 
alarmed  her  so. 

"  Calm  yourself,  child,  no  awful  people  come 
hither.  Tell  me  what  has  occurred." 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  wailed  Sorrow  ;  "  I  did  it. 
Oh,  why  am  I  in  the  world  ?  why  am  I  not 
there,  deep  down  in  the  lake  where  the  frozen 
water  would  bury  me  safely  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet,  child,  quiet ;  do  not  murmur,  do 
not  complain,  for  you  bow  down  the  haughty 
and  soften  the  hardhearted." 

"  No,  mother,  that  is  just  it ;  I  harden  the 
hearts,  and  those  who  love  know  each  other  no 
more.  You  must  hear  my  tale." 

"Two  years  ago  I  turned  in  on  a  prosperous 
farm;  it  was  called  The  Holt.  Wherever  you 
looked  you  saw  evidences  of  full  rich  life.  The 
cattle  were  well  fed  and  tended  like  horses,  the 


io8 


barns  were  full,  the  maids  and  men  in  noisy  ac- 
tivity. A  splendid  boy  with  blue  eyes  and 
brown  locks  was  cracking  his  whip  in  the  yard. 
He  wanted  to  chase  the  calves  that  were  go- 
ing to  drink.  A  slender  pretty  girl  with  laugh- 
ing brown  eyes  and  a  coronet  of  fair  plaits  came 
out  upon  the  doorstep. 

"  '  Johnnie,  Johnnie  !  '  she  cried  ;  'you  rogue, 
you  naughty  boy  ;  will  you  leave  the  calves 
alone.' 

"  The  boy  laughed  and  cracked  his  whip 
louder  than  ever,  but  swift  as  lightning  the  girl 
ran  out,  and  with  a  curious  stern  look  about 
her  mouth  wrenched  the  whip  from  him  before 
he  was  aware  of  it,  and  held  it  high  in  the  air 
so  that  he  could  not  reach  it,  though  he  jumped 
and  tried.  It  was  a  charming  picture,  —  the  boy 
impetuously  defiant,  the  girl  so  firm  and  lithe. 


warn.  io9 

I  looked  at  both  with  pleasure.  But  there  was 
another  looking  at  them,  he  seemed  to  be  the 
bailiff.  When  the  girl  looked  round  she  grew 
quite  red  at  the  gaze  that  rested  on  her,  and 
called  out — • 

"  '  Why  do  you  stand  like  that  ?  Could  you 
not  hinder  him  ?  ' 

" '  Oh,  yes  ;  but  then  Willi  would  not  have 
flown  out  like  a  little  demon.  I  only  waited  to 
see  her  come  out  and  make  her  stern  face.' 

" '  Get  along  with  you,'  she  said,  and  threaten- 
ed him  with  the  whip. 

"  The  bell  rang  for  supper.  I  was  called  in 
and  allowed  to  sit  among  the  mafds.  There 
stood  the  Holt  farmer,  stately  and  strong.  He 
had  just  such  brown  eyes  as  his  daughter,  and 
the  same  stern  look  about  the  mouth,  only  in 
him  it  was  more  marked.  His  wife  had  blue 


eyes  like  the  boy,  but  her  air  was  depressed,  as 
if  she  could  not  hold  herself  against  the  strong 
wills  around  her. 

"  '  Johnnie,  say  grace,'  said  the  farmer. 

"  Johnnie  was  cross  and  mumbled— 

"  '  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  sit  down  among  us,  and 
give  me  back  my  whip.' 

"  '  But,  Johnnie  ! '  thundered  the  voice  of  the 
farmer,  who  tried  thus  to  overpower  the  titter- 
ing that  went  round  the  table. 

"  The  tone  was  a  merry  one.  Johnnie  was 
much  teased,  and  he  swallowed  down  his  vexa- 
tion with  his  hot  soup.  The  bailiff  sat  opposite 
Willi,  and  they  often  exchanged  secret  glances. 

"  '  Johnnie  is  my  crown  prince/  said  the  farm- 
er ;  'and  he  will  once  reign  over  all  this  do- 
main, while  Willi  will  have  all  the  money  and 
wed  the  Raven  farmer.' 


warn.  in 

" '  That  I  will  not,'  said  the  girl,  without  look- 
ing up  from  her  plate,  and  again  that  stern 
look  came  into  her  face  ;  '  I  do  not  like  that  man.' 

"  '  She  does  not  want  to  be  a  raven  mother," 
the  head-maid  whispered  to  the  bailiff,  and  all 
began  to  laugh. 

"'What  is  all  this  whispering? '  asked  the 
farmer,  frowning  darkly. 

"No  one  would  reply.  At  last  Johnnie  called 
out — 

" '  Willi  does  not  want  to  be  a  raven  mother.' 

"Then  the  laughter  knew  no  bounds.  Willi 
threw  a  censuring  look  at  her  brother ;  the  farm- 
er said  dryly — 

"  '  I  do  not  like  these  silly  jokes,  and  if  I  say 
a  thing  it  must  be.' 


1A   German   idiom.       A  "raven   mother''    means  a    bad, 
unnatural  mother. 


?t!0vim 


"  Willi  was  silent,  but  under  her  fair  plaits  the 
same  resolve  remained. 

"  Now  hear  the  terrible  part.  In  the  same 
night  that  I  slept  there  Johnnie  got  ill  with 
fever.  The  doctor  was  sent  for  in  haste  ;  the 
whole  house  was  upset,  and  before  I  could  leave 
the  village  that  I  was  leisurely  pacing,  little 
Johnnie  grew  pale  and  still,  the  whole  farm 
silent  as  the  grave,  and  only  the  sobs  of  women 
were  heard  through  the  open  window  as  they 
laid  the  boy  in  his  coffin.  The  farmer's  wife  was 
quite  broken  down,  she  wept  and  moaned  in- 
cessantly ;  the  farmer  bit  his  teeth  together  in 
wild  grief.  Willi  did  her  work,  but  often  passed 
her  hands  across  her  eyes  ;  only  whenever  the 
bailiff  would  come  near  her,  she  turned  her  back 
and  went  away. 

"  It  was  long  before  I  went  that  road  again  ;  I 


wmt.  113 

could  not  look  at  the  poor  things.  Only  now 
have  I  passed  once  more.  I  wanted  so  much  to 
know  what  the  people  were  doing,  and  whether 
Willi  had  married  the  Raven  farmer  to  comfort 
her  father,  since  his  pride,  his  darling,  his  crown 
prince  lay  in  the  grave.  Oh,  mother,  mother,  had 
I  not  brought  them  misfortune  enough  !  There 
they  stood,  all  three,  upon  the  threshold,  and  the 
north  wind  howled  around  them.  The  old 
woman  was  holding  her  apron  before  her  eyes  ; 
the  father  was  angry  like  a  wild  bull.  He  shook 
Willi  and  turned  her  adrift  with  the  words — 

" '  Away  from  my  house,  wench  ;  I  know  you 
not.' 

"  Willi's  face  was  pale  as  death,  but  unmoved. 
No  sound  crossed  her  lips,  no  prayers,  no  com- 
plaint. The  door  of  her  home  fell  sounding 
into  its  lock,  and  Willi,  wrapped  in  a  shawl, 


stood  outside  in  the  north  wind.  But  under  her 
shawl  something  moved,  which  she  shielded  ten- 
derly, and  that  soon  began  to  cry  for  its  mother's 
breast.  Then  her  face  grew  rather  softer,  and 
she  looked  anxiously  at  the  little  creature  with 
whom  she  was  thus  left  alone  this  wintry  night — 
she,  the  daughter  of  the  rich  farmer  of  The  Holt. 
She  did  not  seem  strong  on  her  feet  and  had 
often  to  stop  by  the  roadside,  now  to  rest,  now 
to  quiet  the  child.  Thus  she  went  on  all  night 
along  the  high  road  till  she  reached  a  strange 
village.  There  she  sought  shelter  from  the  wind 
under  a  porch,  seated  herself  on  the  stone  steps 
and  fell  asleep.  But  scarcely  had  day  dawned 
before  she  was  chased  away  by  the  maid  who 
had  come  to  sweep,  and  who  threw  hard  words 
at  her.  The  wind  had  abated  a  little,  but  she 
was  so  numbed  that  she  tottered  on  her  feet. 


115 


"After  a  while  she  managed  to  walk  again, 
and  thus  she  passed  through  the  whole  large 
village,  over  the  hard  frozen  ground,  under  the 
gray  leaden  sky  that  grew  darker,  more  glower- 
ing as  the  day  advanced.  The  child  would  no 
longer  be  quieted,  and  cried  often  and  long. 
So  poor  Willi  went  from  house  to  house  and 
begged  for  work. 

"  '  We  want  no  maid  with  a  child/  was  the 
hard  reply  she  received  every  where,  or  '  What 
can  we  do  with  the  little  screamer?' 

"  Then  she  begged  for  a  little  milk  for  the 
babe,  for  her  own  was  diminishing  from  hour  to 
hour.  But  no  one  would  give  her.  any,  and  she 
wandered  on.  I  went,  after  her,  for  I  could  no 
longer  lose  hold  of  her.  Suddenly  I  saw  some 
one  come  up  behind  me  —  a  terrible  woman,  with 
stony  face  and  wild  hair.  She  came  nearer, 


ever  nearer,  and  as  she  was  close  upon  me  she 
laughed  hoarsely — 

"  '  You  have  done  your  work  well.  It  is  my 
turn  now,  for  I  am  Despair.' 

"  The  wind  was  howling  anew,  and  a  snow 
storm  began  that  even  took  away  my  breath. 
Willi  thought  she  had  walked  away,  but  in  the 
dead  of  the  night  she  found  herself  once  more 
at  the  entrance  of  the  same  village.  She  seated 
herself  in  a  hedge  half  dead  with  cold  and 
hunger.  The  babe  in  her  arms  whimpered 
unceasingly,  only  from  time  to  time  it  cried 
aloud.  In  the  morning  she  roused  herself  with 
an  effort,  and  once  more  begged  for  a  drop  of 
milk  at  various  doors.  She  was  scolded  anew. 
Once  a  boy  gave  her  a  piece  of  bread,  she  could 
not  eat  it.  She  tried  twice,  three  times,  to 
swallow  the  hard,  cold  pieces.  Then  the  child 


warn.  117 

whined  again.  She  shook  her  head  and  threw 
the  bread  into  the  snow.  Slowly  she  dragged 
herself  onwards,  till  she  came  near  the  river, 
already  covered  with  a  thin  crust  of  ice,  on 
which  lay  the  fresh  fallen  snow.  The  wind 
had  lulled,  but  the  sky  was  still  leaden  gray  and 
a  new  snowstorm  threatened.  The  fearful 
woman  stepped  past  me  towards  Willi,  who 
now  stood  on  the  bridge  staring  down  abstract- 
edly. She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 
Willi  turned  her  head  slowly ;  but  when,  she 
saw  the  stony  eyes  she  shrieked  and  the  child 
fell  out  of  her  arms.  I  heard  the  ice  crack 
and  crackle,  and  then  there  was  nothing  more. 
Willi  lay  on  the  ground  unconscious,  and 
people  who  were  just  passing  the  bridge 
peeped  down,  shook  their  heads  and  raised 
her  up.  I  do  not  know  where  they  took  her, 


beautiful  Willi  with  her  wild  shock  of  fair  hair 
and  her  bright  brown  eyes.  Oh,  mother,  what 
have  I  done!  Can  you  not  help?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Patience,  and  looked  dream- 
ingly  in  front  of  her,  "  but  I  shall  help  when  it 
is  time." 

Winter  was  past,  the  world  began  to  stir 
anew,  the  tomtits  and  blackbirds  twittered,  in 
the  fields  there  was  merry  life,  when  Willi 
stood  before  her  judges  accused  of  infanticide. 
She  was  white  as  a  sheet,  her  eyes  gleamed 
unnaturally  from  out  of  dark  hollows,  and  to 
all  questions  she  only  replied  by  a  shake  of  the 
head.  Brow  and  lips  had  a  strange  expression. 
Was  it  the  reflection  of  that  terrible  face  that 
had  stared  at  her  on  the  bridge,  or  of  the 
thoughts  with  which  she  had  wrestled  in 
prison? 


warn.  HP 

In  the  whole  assembly  there  reigned  breath- 
less silence  and  strained  expectation.  The 
judge's  voice  grew  momentarily  sharper,  more 
incisive. 

"  Do  you  not  know,  then,  that  your  life  is  in 
danger  if  you  give  no  answer?"  was  sounding 
from  his  lips,  when  there  arose  a  commotion  in 
the  assembly. 

All  turned  towards  the  door,  by  which  en- 
tered the  Holt  farmer.  He  was  bowed  down, 
his  hair  was  white  and  there  were  deep  furrows 
in  his  face.  When  Willi  saw  him  her  hand 
clutched  into  a  fist,  which  she  raised  threaten- 
ingly. Of  a  sudden  she  let  it  sink.  She  knew 
not  what  came  to  her,  but  something  soft  laid 
itself  round  her  heart  that  seemed  to  melt  its 
ice.  Invisible  to  all,  behind  the  farmer,  some 
one  else  had  stepped  into  court ;  it  was  Mother 


Patience.  She  saw  with  a  glance  that  things 
were  not  well  for  Willi.  Like  a  soft,  tender  air 
of  spring,  she  passed  by  all  assembled,  touched 
Willi's  hard  brow,  whispered  some  words  to 
her  counsel,  began  to  dictate  questions  to  the 
judge,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  support 
the  farmer. 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  room  was  changed. 
Even  the  pale  youth  Death,  who  stood  behind 
Willi  and  waited  for  her,  retired  a  few  steps.  It 
would  seem  as  if  this  time  she  would  escape  him. 

"Tell  me,  my  child,"  said  the  judge,  quite 
gently,  "  were  you  long  on  the  high  roads  ?" 

Willi  answered  firmly — 

"  I  no  longer  know." 

"  Were  you  out  at  night  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  was  out  at  night — two  nights,  I 
think,  in  a  snowstorm." 


warn. 


121 


"Did  you  ask  none  for  alms?" 

Willi  gnashed  her  teeth. 

"  I  went  from  house  to  house,  and  begged  for 
milk  for  the— for  the — fainting  child  ;  but  none, 
none  gave  me  aught.  They  scolded  me,  and 
called  me  bad  names,  but  gave  me  not  one 
drop." 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  assemblage. 
People  from  the  village  were  called  in  who 
stated  that  a  person  had  begged  from  them  for 
two  days,  and  had  then  disappeared. 

"  She  wandered  in  the  snowstorm  with  a 
new-born  babe,"  said  the  judge,  sternly  ;  "  and 
you  gave  her  nothing  ?  " 

"We  thought  she  was  a  bad  woman," 
answered  the  people. 

The  judge  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  And  then  you  came  to  a  bridge,  and  leant 


against  it  to  look  into  the  water.  What  hap- 
pened after?" 

Willi  shuddered. 

"I  looked  down,  and  wanted  to  jump  in,  but 
I  was  so  frozen  I  could  not  lift  my  feet,  and 
then — then,  some  one  touched  me,  and  when  I 
turned  round  I  saw  a  terrible  woman,  with  a 
face  of  stone,  with  wild  hair,  and  then— then  I 
heard  the  ice  crack  below  me,  and  then  I  knew 
nothing  more." 

The  Holt  farmer  groaned  aloud ;  the  list- 
eners looked  at  one  another ;  the  counsel 
began  to  speak  with  great  eloquence,  and  ban- 
died  the  word  "  Hallucination." 

Willi  listened  amazed. 

"  So  that  is  the  name  of  that  terrible  woman," 
she  thought. 

Once  she  gazed  at  her  father.     He  looked  so 


warn.  123 

broken  that  her  eyes  grew  moist  and  damp,  and 
a  tear  rolled  slowly  down  her  emaciated  face 
and  fell  upon  her  hand.  She  did  not  perceive 
that  silent,  pale  Death  retreated  from  her,  as 
little  as  she  had  felt  his  proximity.  She  only 
looked  with  weary  eyes  towards  the  door  that 
closed  behind  the  jury.  What  to  her  were  Life 
and  Death?  But  another  tear  rolled  forth  as 
she  looked  at  her  father,  who  also  gazed  at  the 
closed  door,  as  if  there  would  issue  thence  a 
thunderbolt  that  could  kill  him.  At  last,  at 
last,  the  men  came  out  and  spoke  solemnly  and 
earnestly — 

"'  Not  guilty." 

Impossible  to  describe  the  commotion  in  the 
court.  No  one  was  calm  save  Willi,  who  leaned 
stunned  against  the  wall,  and  only  opened  her 
eyes  when  she  felt  her  head  resting  against  a 


124 


beating  heart,  and  two  arms  flung  around  her 
neck,  as  they  had  often  been  flung  when  she 
was  a  small,  weak  child.  The  Holt  farmer 
whispered  softly  into  the  ear  of  his  rescued 
child,  words  that  sank  into  her  heart,  as  though 
no  curious  crowd  surrounded  her.  When  at  last 
she  found  words  she  stammered  with  dry  lips  — 

"  Mother,  where  is  mother  ?  " 

Then  there  flashed  a  look  like  sheet  lightning 
across  the  old  man's  face. 

"  Mother  is  ill,  very,  very  ill  ;  perhaps  we 
shall  no  longer  find  her." 

"  Oh,  come,  father  ;  quick,  let  us  go,"  said 
Willi,  and  she  drew  him  away  so  eagerly  the  old 
man  could  hardly  follow. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  farm  they  stood  still 
a  second  ;  Willi  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart,  but 
it  would  not  be  calmed. 


I25 


"Father,"  she  whispered,  "father,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  I,  too,"  he  said  softly,  from  his  inmost  soul. 

Willi  re-entered  her  home  trembling,  trem- 
bling she  stood  in  the  dear  old  room.  There  lay 
her  mother,  deadly  still,  pale  as  marble;  but 
Mother  Patience  had  kissed  her  at  the  last,  and 
that  was  why  her  white  mouth  smiled.  Willi 
knelt  by  the  bed,  and  her  whole  body  shook 
with  suppressed  sobs. 

The  farmer  stood  leaning  on  his  stick  in  the 
doorway ;  the  tears  ran  down  his  face.  He 
knew  it,  he  had  himself  closed  those  eyes  that 
had  at  last  ceased  from  weeping."  Then  he 
went  out,  he  could  look  no  longer. 

Sorrow  was  in  the  room ;  she  laid  her  arm 
round  Willi  and  murmured — 

"  My  sister  !  " 


126  f^itgvim 


Mother  Patience  was  there  too.  She  stroked 
Willi's  locks  and  poured  peace  into  her  weary 
soul,  so  that  at  last  she  could  bear  to  look  at 
her  dead  mother,  ay,  could  even  touch  the  cold 
hands  with  her  lips.  Then  Patience  pointed  the 
way  to  her  father  outside,  to  whom  she  re- 
mained as  sole  comfort  and  support.  Ay,  Willi 
was  a  strong  soul.  She  began  a  hard,  weary 
life  with  a  broken  heart  and  a  weakened  body. 
She  had  often  need  to  call  upon  Mother 
Patience,  when  her  strength  was  at  an  end,  and 
her  father,  old  and  crabbed,  demanded  too 
much  from  her  ;  when  the  farm-servants  obeyed 
her  reluctantly  and  morosely  ;  when  the  villagers 
avoided  her  at  the  church  door. 

She  became  a  mother  to  the  poor,  and  quietly 
did  more  good  than  all  the  villagers  together. 
Yet  all  were  somewhat  in  awe  of  the  grave, 


warn.  127 

stern  woman,  who  was  never  hard  or  angry,  but 
never  cheerful.  She  will  not  marry,  least  of 
all  the  man  who  brought  her  to  shame  and  de- 
serted her  in  her  need  ;  her  property  she  will 
leave  to  the  orphaned. 

Yes,    yes,    Mother  Patience,  you    can   work 
miracles. 


THE  HERMIT. 


Ibermit 


(ORROW  wanted  to  rest,  so  one  hot 
midsummer's  day  she  climbed  lightly 
into  the  high  mountains,  amid 
the  ancient  forests,  high,  high  up,  into  the 
region  of  quiet,  solemn  solitude.  Only  here  and 
there  a  streamlet  trickled,  or  a  dry  branch  that  lay 
upon  the  thick  moss  broke  under  her  footsteps. 
From  time  to  time  the  leaves  swayed,  as  though 
the  trees  breathed  ;  then  a  sunbeam  would  creep 
through  and  slide  across  the  fallen  mossy  giant 
trunks  upon  which  younger  life  was  disporting  ; 


132 


little  firs  and  beeches,  strawberries  and  ants  in 
dense  confusion.  Of  a  sudden  there  was  an 
opening,  and  Sorrow  found  herself  stepping 
upon  a  narrow  path,  beneath  towering  rocks,  at 
her  feet  a  yawning  precipice.  After  a  while  the 
space  grew  a  little  wider,  and  she  came  to  a  tiny 
house  attached  to  the  rock  like  to  an  eagle's 
eyrie.  Beside  it,  in  a  niche  cut  in  the  living 
rock,  sat  a  man  with  long  white  beard,  leaning 
on  his  stick,  and  staring  with  somber  dark  eyes 
down  into  the  valleys  that  opened  out  from  all 
sides. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  there  was  only 
mountain  and  forest.  Two  eagles  hovered 
almost  immovable  in  the  trembling  summer  air, 
and  then  flew  after  each  other  in  slow 
circles. 

"  I  am  weary,"  said  Sorrow,  and  seated  herself 


133 


in  the  thyme  at  the  feet  of  the  hermit,  who 
looked  at  her  slowly  from  top  to  toe. 

"Is  that  all  that  you  bring?"  he  asked, 
grimly.  "  You  had  promised  you  would  some- 
time bring  me  Rest,  but  I  see  no  one." 

"I  think  she  is  coming  after  me,"  said 
Sorrow,  dreamily;  "the  forest  is  getting  so 
quiet  ;  but  I  will  not  let  her  come  if  you  do 
not  keep  your  promise  to  me  and  tell  me  your 
history." 

Once  again  a  somber  look  from  out  those 
black  eyes  was  fixed  on  Sorrow  ;  then  they 
looked  nervously,  searchingly  out  into  the 
wood  ;  then  the  white  beard  trembled  a  little, 
and  dull,  muffled  tones  issued  from  the  man's 
chest. 

"  The  price  is  heavy,  but  Rest  is  sweet.  In 
my  youth  I  was  poor  and  never  looked  at  the 


134 


girls,  for  I  did  not  want  to  create  misery  about 
me,  and  I  knew  hunger  and  thirst  too  well  to 
ask  them  of  my  own  accord  to  dwell  in  my  hut. 
I  was  strong  as  a  lion,  and  industrious,  so  I 
slowly  earned  a  good  piece  of  bread  and  a  house 
that  I  had  almost  built  by  myself.  Then  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that,  as  youth  was  nearly  past,  I 
must  make  haste  if  I  wanted  to  marry.  I  knew 
a  lovely  girl,  with  eyes  like  a  deer,  whom  a 
youth  in  the  village  had  long  desired,  but  she 
had  refused  him  several  times,  until  at  last  he 
saw  that  she  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him. 
Then  he  had  a  mind  to  drown,  but  he  thought 
better  of  it  and  went  to  foreign  parts,  and 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  him.  The  same 
day  I  wooed  Marie,  and  nearly  fainted  for  joy 
when,  in  answer  to  my  timid  question,  '  If  I  am 
not  too  old  for  you,  I  should  like  to  have  you  to 


135 


wife,  will  you  be  mine  ?  '  she  answered  with 
glad  eyes,  quite  softly,  '  Most  willingly.'  I  be- 
lieve that  if  one  begins  to  love  young,  one  does 
not  know  what  such  happiness  means.  But  if 
one  has  been  alone  for  years,  and  then  comes 
home  and  there  by  the  hearth  stands  a  young, 
beautiful  woman  who  laughs  at  one  roguishly, 
it  makes  one  hot  about  the  heart  and  head,  and 
one  takes  up  one's  happiness  in  one's  arms  and 
runs  about  with  it  like  one  demented.  You 
even  cavil  with  the  wind  if  it  blows  on  your 
wife,  and  you  hardly  like  to  suffer  the  sun  to 
shine  on  her.  Yes,  I  was  quite  beside  myself 
with  love  and  happiness  ;  and  when  next  year 
she  presented  me  with  a  son,  I  really  had  to 
tear  myself  away  to  go  to  my  work.  And  the 
child  had  just  such  eyes  as  hers,  so  beaming  and 
merry.  Soon  it  could  stretch  out  its  little 


136 


hands  and  pull  my  beard,  and  then  we  laughed. 
Six  years  passed  thus  happily  ;  every  day  the 
boy  grew  more  beautiful  and  clever,  and  my 
Marie  remained  merry  and  young  in  our  little 
house  by  the  mountain.  True  I  was  passionate 
sometimes,  but  then  she  would  always  send  me 
our  boy  and  I  grew  quiet  at  once,  for  no  one 
could  look  into  his  eyes  and  be  angry,  so 
angelic  was  that  face  with  its  golden  curls. 

"  One  day  the  rejected  wooer  returned  to  the 
village  ;  we  saw  him  as  we  went  to  church,  and 
it  gave  me  a  pang  to  see  that  Marie  grew  pale 
and  red  and  could  not  cease  from  looking  at 
him.  It  is  true  that  she  laughed  at  me  for  this, 
and  said  that  she  was  quite  proud  that  I  could 
even  be  jealous  of  the  past. 

"  But  I  could  not  forget  his  look,  and  why 
had  she  grown  red?  All  the  villagers  had 


137 


noticed  it  and  smiled,  and  as  it  was  the  younger 
men  were  jealous  of  me.  Nor  was  there  an  end 
with  tnis  first  meeting.  He  insisted  on  his  old 
acquaintanceship  and  visited  us  often,  and  as  he 
had  nothing  to  do,  he  sometimes  came  when 
my  wife  was  alone  at  home.  I  began  to  be 
vexed  at  this,  especially  since  a  horrid  old 
woman,  with  a  fair  young  girl,  that  was  as  like 
you  as  pea  to  pea,  turned  in  at  our  house  one 
day  and  warmed  themselves  by  our  fire.  She 
let  all  sorts  of  words  fall,  about  evil  tongues, 
about  an  old  man  and  a  young  wife  and  an 
ancient  lover,  and  while  she  jabbered  the  girl 
looked  at  me  piteously,  like  you-look  now — I 
can  never  forget  that  look.  My  wife  was  in 
the  bedroom  putting  our  boy  to  sleep,  and  as 
she  was  not  there  to  cheer  me  with  her  dear 
presence,  the  poison  sank  deep  into  my  heart. 


138 


From  that  hour  I  grew  irritable  and  passionate 
towards  her,  which  made  her  lose  her  cheerful 
calmness  and  look  nervous  whenever  the  un- 
invited guest  appeared.  I  wanted  to  show 
him  the  door,  but  she  would  not  allow  it,  say- 
ing wisely  :  '  Do  you  want  him  to  tell  the 
whole  village  that  you  are  jealous  of  him,  and 
that  you  mistrust  your  wife?' 

"  How  many  bitter  hours  he  cost  us  both  ! 
Whenever  he  had  been  I  scolded  Marie  till  far 
into  the  night.  It  was  her  fault  ;  if  she  were 
not  so  pleasant  to  him  he  would  certainly  not 
come  again.  And  I,  who  formerly  would  have 
let  her  tread  on  me,  if  that  could  spare  her 
aught,  could  now  look  on  coldly  when  she  wept 
for  hours.  Her  joyous  laughter  ceased,  and  she 
always  looked  at  me  terrified.  I  wanted  that 
she  too  should  feel  some  of  the  misery  that 


139 


gnawed  at  my  heart,  for  was  it  not  her  fault  ? 
The  bad  old  woman  often  came  through  the 
forest  where  I  hewed  down  trees  and  said — 

" '  Go  home,  you  will  find  him  there.' 

"  And  I  did  find  him  once  or  twice,  and  at 
last  I  said  :  '  Marie,  if  I  find  him  once  more, 
there  will  happen  mischief ;  I  forewarn 
you.' 

"  And  yet  again  one  evil  day  that  old  woman 
came  tramping  through  the  deep  snow,  and 
laughed  maliciously  and  said  — 

"  '  Go  home  !  go  home  !  ' 

"  I  shouldered  my  ax  and  ran  home.  There 
stood  my  wife,  and  she  was  red  and  angry,  and 
was  scolding  that  man.  He  only  laughed.  I 
seized  him  by  the  breast  and  swung  the  ax 
over  his  head.  Marie  seized  me  by  the  arm 
and  cried  — 


140 


"  '  Think  of  your  son.  He  shall  not  have  a 
murderer  for  his  father  !  ' 

"  My  arm  sank.  I  ran  out  of  the  door,  far 
into  the  wood.  There  lay  the  stems  and  trunks 
I  had  hewn  down,  a  crust  of  ice  covered  the 
snow,  beneath  ran  the  path  that  my  enemy 
must  tread  to  return  to  the  village.  I  stretched 
out  my  arm  and  began  to  arrange  the  blocks  in 
such  a  manner  that  they  would  slowly  roll  down. 
One  must  hit  him,  I  thought,  and  then  he  will 
be  dead,  and  I  shall  be  no  murderer. 

"  At  the  first  footsteps  I  heard  below  I  threw 
the  trunks  down,  and  they  followed  thick  as 
hail.  I  did  not  look  down.  Suddenly  a  cry 
that  pierced  my  very  marrow  rang  upon  the  air. 
It  was  the  cry  of  a  child.  I  grew  dizzy.  True 
I  sprang  with  lightning  speed  to  the  spot  whence 
the  cry  had  come.  There  lay  the  golden  curls 


141 


of  my  boy  pressed  in  the  snow  ;  out  of  his  open 
mouth  there  trickled  blood,  and  his  deer-like 
eyes  looked  at  me  solemnly.  I  called  him  by 
name  ;  I  pressed  him  to  me  ;  I  breathed  into 
his  mouth  ;  in  vain  —  he  was  dead,  dead  !  I  took 
him  in  my  arms  and  bore  him  home  ;  kicked 
open  the  door  with  my  foot,  and  gave  him  to 
his  mother  with  the  words  — 

"  '  There  you  have  your  boy  !  The  tree  that 
was  destined  for  your  friend  hit  him.' 

"  She  did  not  cry  ;  she  did  not  moan  ;  she 
shed  no  tears  ;  only  her  lips  grew  ashy.  She 
held  the  boy  for  two  days  on  her  lap  and  spoke 
no  word  save  a  soft  — 

"'  My  child!  my  child  !' 

"  It  had  to  be  taken  from  her  forcibly  to  bury 
it.  We  did  not  speak  again  to  one  another. 
The  friend  had  vanished,  and  the  bad  old 


142 


woman,  too,  did  not  come  again.  Other  peo- 
ple soon  kept  away,  as  I  was  so  gruff  and  my 
wife  so  silent.  So  the  days  passed,  and  the 
weeks  and  the  months.  I  might  not  enter  her 
room.  She  begged  me  to  leave  her  alone.  I 
think  she  sat  all  night  long  beside  the  bed  of 
the  child  and  pressed  kisses  on  his  pillow.  Day 
by  day  she  faded.  I  did  not  notice  it.  It 
never  occurred  to  me  to  send  for  a  doctor. 
I  wanted  no  human  being  to  behold  our  misery. 

"  One  evening  she  called  me  with  a  weak 
voice  to  her  bedside,  and  said  calmly  — 

"'To-night  I  must  die,  but  before  I  do  I 
want  to  confess  myself  to  you.  I  have  hated 
you  since  the  hour  you  killed  my  joy,  and  much 
though  I  have  struggled,  and  greatly  though  I 
desired  to  have  pity  on  you,  yet  hate  was 
stronger.' 


143 


"  '  The  greater  your  love  for  that  other/  i 
hissed  forth. 

She  raised  her  hand  in  oath. 

"'Never;  I  was  your  faithful  wife  until  the 
end.  I  thank  you  for  all  the  happiness  of  those 
first  years,  and  I  forgive  you  the  misery  of  the 
last.  Kiss  me,  I  love  you  once  more.' 

"  For  the  first  time  I  wept  and  craved  her 
pardon  for  all  I  had  done  to  her.  She  laid  her 
hand  once  more  on  my  brow,  sighed  a  deep 
sigh,  and  was  dead. 

"  Then  I  ran  away  into  the  mountains  and 
could  look  at  no  human  being.  I  wanted  never 
to  speak  again,  never  to  hear  the  sound  of 
voices.  I  sought  for  Rest  in  the  woods,  in  the 
rocks,  with  the  eagles  and  bears,  and  yet  I 
have  not  found  her.  My  suffering  is  so  great, 
I  believe  the  very  stars  have  pity  on  me.  And 


144 


old  as  I  am,  I  cannot  forget  that  I  myself 
murdered  my  happiness." 

The  Hermit  had  done  speaking.  All  the 
hot  passions  of  his  past  life  had  been  reflected 
by  his  features.  Sorrow's  eyes  had  looked  at 
him  fixedly,  calmly,  pityingly,  sympathetically. 

Now  she  beckoned  towards  the  mountains 
behind  which  the  sun  was  about  to  sink.  On 
large  broad  pinions  Rest  came  floating  onwards, 
looked  into  the  old  man's  eyes  until  they 
drooped,  closed  them  with  gentle  hand,  breathed 
over  his  rigid  features  till  all  traces  of  bitterness 
vanished  thence,  and  the  mouth,  that  was 
closed  for  ever,  looked  almost  gentle.  Sorrow 
had  already  vanished.  She  descended  into  the 
valley  and  wandered  all  night.  For  as  often  as 
she  desired  to  turn  the  handle  of  a  door,  she  drew 
it  back,  and  thought  of  the  Hermit  and  his  fate. 


LOTTY. 


|T  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  snow 
was  whirling  in  dense  masses  out- 
side, and  the  wind  was  so  strong  that 
it  swept  one  side  of  the  street  quite  clean,  and 
piled  up  whole  mountains  of  snow  across  the 
way.  Through  all  the  windows  there  gleamed 
the  bright  light  of  the  merry  Christmas  trees, 
and  the  voices  of  hundreds  of  happy  children 
were  heard.  Alone  and  softly  Sorrow  crept 
along  in  the  snowstorm.  She  turned  her  eyes 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  that  she  might  throw 


148 


no  shadow  over  these  Christmas  gayeties  ;  she 
was  making  for  a  house  where  there  was  no  joy 
to  destroy.  She  passed  two  children  —  a  girl  in 
thin  outgrown  clothes,  and  a  little  boy  who 
wanted  to  see  all  the  lovely  things  that  were  in- 
side the  houses.  His  sister  raised  him  up  with 
all  her  strength,  so  that  he  could  grapple  hold 
of  the  window-sill,  and  with  enchantment  he 
looked  at  all  the  wonders  within.  But  lifting 
her  arms  had  made  her  poor  old  dress 
crack,  and  a  sleeve  came  out  of  its  seam. 
A  tear  ran  down  her  face  ;  it  froze  on  her 
cheek.  Sorrow  stroked  her  head  with  her 
hand. 

"  I  was  coming  to  you,"  she  said  ;  "  how  go 
things  at  home  ?  " 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

The  little  one  coughs  and  can  barely  breathe, 


149 


and  the  older  sister  says  the  pains  in  her  legs 
are  so  bad  with  this  wind. 

"  Won't  you  come  home  with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  boy,  "  it  is  so  beautiful  in 
there,  so  bright.  Do  you  hear  how  they  laugh  ?  " 

Sorrow  did  not  look  up  but  went  further,  and 
did  not  notice  that  Envy  was  creeping  behind 
her,  with  his  thin  lips  and  sharp  nose  and 
squinting  eyes.  He  came  up  to  the  children 
and  whispered  to  them  — 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful  in  the  homes  of  the  rich, 
is  it  not  ?  What  have  you  got,  you  poor  things  ? 
Is  it  not  Christmas  too  for  you  ?  " 

"  Hu,  how  cold  it  is  !  "  the  boy  said  suddenly. 
"  Come,  it  is  no  longer  pretty  here." 

And  they  ran  home. 

As  they  opened  the  door  a  haggard  woman 
called  out  sharp  and  impatiently  — 


150 


"  Quick,  shut  the  door,  or  all  the  snow  Avill 
come  in." 

They  cowered  into  a  corner  behind  the 
hearth  ;  the  woman  walked  up  and  down,  car- 
rying a  child  in  her  arms  that  coughed  and 
choked  and  gasped  for  air.  In  the  only  bed 
lay  a  feverish  girl,  emaciated,  with  unkempt 
hair  and  large  restless  eyes.  Sorrow  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  couch  and  held  her  hand  ;  the  girl 
talked  incessantly,  softly  and  quickly  — 

"You  see  it  is  Christmas,  once  that  was  so 
beautiful,  when  things  still  went  well  with  us. 
Then  we  always  had  a  tree  and  apples  and  gin- 
gerbread, and  I  had  a  doll  that  had  clothes  like 
a  princess.  I  liked  sewing  them  for  my  dolly  ; 
I  don't  like  it  now  for  other  people." 

She  smiled. 

"  What  a  pity  you  can't  see   the  little  dress  I 


made  for  this  evening,  white  and  red,  with 
cords  and  pink  bows." 

Then  the  crack  of  the  door  opened  and  Envy 
pushed  himself  in  softly,  invisibly.  It  grew 
markedly  colder  in  the  room.  The  mother's 
face  became  gloomy,  the  feverish  girl  more  rest- 
less. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  impatiently,  "  always  sew- 
ing, always  sewing.  Why  do  the  others,  who 
were  poor,  drive  about  in  fine  carriages,  and 
wear  soft  clothes  and  laugh  so  merrily  !  If  they 
are  wicked,  well,  then  it  must  be  nice  to  be 
wicked.  What  does  my  labor  bring  me? — hun- 
ger and  pain  !  " 

The  mother  did  not  hear  her  daughter's  rapid 
words,  for  the  child  in  her  arms  was  wrestling 
with  death.  Outside  the  wind  howled.  The 
two  other  children  had  fallen  asleep  in  their 


152 


corner,  hungry  and  exhausted,  and  in  their 
dreams  Envy  had  no  more  power  over  them, 
and  they  only  saw  the  beautiful  Christmas  tree 
shimmering.  It  was  a  long  night  in  which  the 
lamp  of  life  flickered  up  and  down  in  that 
little  house,  and  a  young  soul  fought  at  the 
hand  of  Sorrow  the  fight  for  life  and 
death. 

Towards  morning  the  wrestling  of  both  was 
ended.  The  child  lay  dead  in  its  mother's  lap, 
the  young  girl  slumbered  restlessly.  The  storm 
was  over.  The  glittering  snow  lay  piled  up 
high,  looking  blue  in  the  shadows  of  the  houses, 
and  softly  tinted  with  red  where  the  rising  sun 
met  it.  Then  the  bells  began  to  peal  for  merry 
Christmas.  That  woke  the  two  children,  who 
stared  aghast  at  the  little  corpse.  The  young 
girl  raised  herself,  and  saw  that  her  mother 


153 


wept,  but  from  her  eyes  there  came  no  tears  — 
she  envied  the  dead  child  its  rest. 

A  merry  sound  of  sledge  bells  sounded,  and 
like  a  lovely  dream  two  beautiful  young  girls 
flew  past  in  a  sledge,  wrapped  snugly  in  rich 
furs.  Their  cheeks  and  eyes  sparkled  with  joy 
in  the  beautiful  sunshine.  It  passed  like  light- 
ning, this  vision,  but  all  in  the  little  house  were 
dazzled  by  it.  The  sick  girl  drew  her  thin 
hands  through  her  black  hair,  the  poor  woman 
bit  her  teeth  together,  and  the  two  children 
said  — 

"  Mother,  were  those  angels  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  uttered  harshly  ;  1<  they  were 
human  beings  like  ourselves,  only  rich  and  hap- 
py, who  are  not  hungry,  and  have  warm 
clothes." 

Sorrow  touched  her  arm  — 


154 


"  If  you  desire  it,  I  will  bring  them  here,  into 
your  home  ;  but  at  one  price  —  they  will  suffer 
pain  and  misery,  and  their  joy  will  vanish.  Do 
you  want  that  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  do.  Why  should 
not  they  watch  and  weep  as  we  do  ?  " 

Sorrow  sighed. 

"Shall  I  fetch  them?"  she  asked  once  again. 

"  Go,  go  ;  do  you  not  see  that  my  children 
starve  ?  What  do  other  people's  children  con- 
cern me?" 

Sorrow  neared  the  young  girl's  bed. 

"  Farewell  for  the  present,"  she  said  ;  "  be 
brave  and  reasonable,  and  take  care  of  yourself, 
that  I  may  not  have  to  come  to  you  again  to 
punish." 

She  kissed  the  children.  "  I  send  you  the 
angels  and  a  good  Christmas,  have  patience." 


i55 


Then  she  softly  lifted  the  door  latch  and  was 
gone.  Envy  slid  after  her  ;  and  in  her  place, 
on  the  first  sunbeam  that  smote  the  rows  of 
houses,  Hope  floated  into  the  room  and  made 
it  light.  Mother  and  children  looked  out  ex- 
pectantly. The  girl  pushed  back  her  hair  from 
her  brow,  and  the  bad  thoughts  retreated. 

Sorrow  paced  so  lightly  across  the  snow  that 
she  scarcely  left  a  trace,  as  though  she  were 
borne  by  the  sharp  east  wind,  whose  pungent 
tongue  mocked  the  fine  winter  morning.  She 
went  through  the  most  aristocratic  streets,  and 
vanished  into  one  of  the  stateliest  houses  ;  en- 
tering so  softly  that  no  one  noticecrtier,  not  even 
the  servants,  who  were  stretching  themselves 
on  red  cushioned  divans  in  the  entrance  hall  ; 
not  even  the  parrot  that  always  cried,  "  Canaille  ! 
Canaille  !  "  and  made  a  wise  face.  She  went  up 


156 


the  broad  stairs,  where  everything  was  perfumed 
of  fir-trees,  straight  towards  a  high  door,  whence 
the  laughter  of  youthful  voices  resounded.  Un- 
noticed she  stood  in  the  high  large  room 
through  whose  many  windows  the  sun  streamed, 
touching  the  white-covered,  long  tables,  on 
which  still  lay  all  the  presents  given  the  night 
before.  At  one  end  of  the  room  stood  three 
tall  fir-trees,  their  branches  bent  under  a  gay 
weight,  and  round  about  the  room  some  thirty 
smaller  ones.  The  six  huge  chandeliers  were 
encircled  with  garlands  of  fir  and  chains  of  glass 
balls,  and  from  one  to  the  other  hung  rows  of 
colored  paper  lamps.  It  must  have  looked 
quite  fairy-like  in  the  evening  with  all  the  can- 
dles alight.  Amidst  this  glory  two  tall  slim, 
supple  figures,  in  dark,  close-fitting,  cloth 
dresses,  were  playing  battledore  and  shuttlecock. 


Every  movement  was  of  rare  grace,  and  the  deli- 
cate profiles  with  the  dark  arched  eyebrows, 
stood  out  well  against  the  somber  firs.  The 
gold  brown  hair  of  the  one  hung  in  voluptuous 
waves  over  her  shoulders,  only  held  together  by 
a  ribbon  ;  a  weight  of  fair  plaits  hung  down  the 
neck  of  the  other.  Their  heads  thrown  back- 
wards revealed  faultlessly  set  necks  and  laugh- 
ing rows  of  pearly  teeth.  It  was  a  sight  for 
gods,  and  the  young  man  who  looked  on 
thought  so,  as  he  sat  in  Olympian  calm  care- 
lessly reading  in  an  armchair,  dressed  in  an 
elegant  morning  suit,  a  cigarette  in  his  ring- 
covered  hand.  From  time  to  time,  fn  a  power- 
ful baritone,  he  hummed  some  rather  frivolous 
songs  that  each  time  drew  down  on  him  a  storm 
of  laughing  reproaches. 

"  I  beg  my  stern  cousins  to  remark,"  he  said, 


158 


"  that  the  ball  has  now  fallen  fourteen  times  to 
the  ground,  and  that  I  consequently  regret  that 
my  proposal  was  negatived  that  each  such  miss 
should  be  punished  with  a  kiss." 

The  girls  laughed,  but  suddenly  they  noticed 
Sorrow,  who  looked  on  seriously  at  their  merri- 
ment, like  a  distant  hail-cloud  at  a  harvest 
home. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  both  girls  asked  at  once, 
approaching  their  strange  guest. 

Sorrow  would  fain  have  cast  down  her  eyes 
that  she  might  not  look  at  the  three  young 
heads  in  that  room  ;  but  she  saw  them,  and  felt 
herself  spell-bound.  She  looked  at  all  three, 
and  then  said  in  her  soft,  deep  tones  — 

"  I  have  just  come  from  a  house  where  since 
yesterday  no  one  has  eaten,  where  this  night  a 
child  has  died,  and  a  girl  lies  sick  in  bed  ;  two 


159 


other  children  I  found  out  in  the  snowstorm  as 
they  were  admiring  a  Christmas  tree.  Can  you 
not  help  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  at  once,"  cried  the  one  with  the  gold 
brown  locks.  "  Albert,  be  so  good  as  to  order 
the  sledge.  Cara,  do  you  run  to  mother  and 
ask  her  for  money.  I  will  get  food  and 
clothes." 

With  all  imaginable  speed  every  thing  was 
got  ready.  After  a  brief  half-hour  the  sledge 
stood  before  the  door  laden  with  wood  and 
baskets,  and  one  of  the  Christmas  trees.  There 
v/as  barely  room  for  the  three  young  people  to 
squeeze  in.  The  mother,  a  stately,  elegant 
woman,  with  wise  eyes,  restrained  the  eldest  girl, 
Doris,  for  a  second,  to  say  something  to  her  very 
earnestly,  upon  which  she  kissed  both  her 
hands.  Then  she,  too,  flew  downstairs  after  the 


160 


others,  and  as  fast  as  the  wind  they  trotted  to 
the  house  of  the  poor  people. 

"  Mother,  the  angels  have  come,"  cried  the 
children. 

They  got  out  and  brought  in  the  tree.  Cara 
knelt  down  by  the  hearth  and  made  a  fire,  and 
Doris  placed  the  tree  by  the  bedside  of  the  suf- 
ferer, darkened  the  room  and  lighted  it.  She 
gave  the  children  bread  and  cake,  and  then  the 
two  lovely  girls  stood  by  the  sick  girl's  bedside 
and  sang  a  Christmas  carol.  The  little  boy,  with 
folded  hands,  looked  now  at  the  lights,  now  at 
the  angels,  and  large  tears  rolled  over  his  pale 
face.  Albert  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do 
with  himself  ;  but  now  that  the  two  girls  helped 
the  mother  to  warm  some  soup  and  cut  up  meat 
for  the  children,  he  neared  the  bed,  and  looked 
with  scrutiny  into  the  black  eyes  that  glowed 


161 


and  reflected  with  uncanny  fire  the  lights  of  the 
Christmas  tree. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  he  asked  kindly  with 
his  pleasant  voice. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly  ;  she 
felt  the  gaze  of  his  beautiful  blue  eyes  burn  into 
her  heart.  Then  she  grew  red,  cast  down  her 
eyes,  and  said  :  "  Lotty." 

Soon  an  animated  conversation  sprang  up 
between  the  two.  Albert  took  out  his  pocket- 
book,  wrote  a  few  lines,  and  sent  off  the  servant 
with  orders  to  bring  the  doctor  back  in  the 
sledge.  They  would  wait  till  he  came.  Doris's 
eyes  rested  for  an  instant  on  her  cousin,  who  had 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  talked 
eagerly  to  Lotty.  Scarcely  was  the  sledge  gone 
than  she  said  — 

"  There,  that  will  do  for  to-day  ;  I  will  walk 


1  62 


home.  We  will  come  again  in  a  few  days,  till 
then  you  have  provision." 

And  so  speaking  she  walked  out  of  the  house, 
regardless  of  her  cousin's  remonstrances. 

Next  day  all  looked  bright  and  cheerful  in 
the  little  room,  but  grief  and  pain  had  entered 
the  palace.  Cara  had  fallen  on  the  ice  while 
skating,  and  lay  in  bed  maimed  in  all  her  limbs, 
and  suffering  keenly.  Her  snow-white  hands 
lay  quiescent  beside  her  plaits  upon  the  coverlet. 
Her  father  patted  them,  and  the  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks.  Then  Cara  smiled,  but  her  eyes 
looked  out  dim  and  deep  from  their  hollows,  and 
round  her  lips  there  quivered  a  suppressed  sigh. 
Wearily  she  dragged  on  her  life  for  weeks  and 
weeks  ;  but  if  any  one  asked  Cara  how  she  was, 
she  would  always  answer  kindly  — 

"I  think  I  am  much  better." 


163 


But  pain  had  pinched  her  face  and  emaci- 
ated her  body,  and  her  hands  and  feet  remained 
paralyzed.  Her  only  recreation  were  Albert's 
visits.  He  told  her  all  manner  of  things,  and 
sang  her  merry  songs.  Doris  grew  pale  and  thin 
with  continued  nursing,  so  that  at  last  her 
mother  had  to  force  her  to  go  out.  She  be- 
thought her  of  Lotty,  and  went  to  call  on  her. 
How  amazed  was  she  to  find  the  little  house 
transformed,  and  Lotty  changed  more  than  all  ! 
Graceful,  rounded  in  all  her  limbs,  she  stepped 
towards  her,  and  the  slight  limp  that  remained 
from  her  illness  only  gave  her  an  added  grace. 
Her  eyes  had  learned  to  laugh,  and  her  whole 
being  had  gained  something  attractive  and 
bright. 

"  But,  Lotty,  how  well  you  look  !  I  was  afraid 
you  would  think  we  had  forgotten  you." 


1  64 


"  How  could  I  think  that,"  said  Lotty,  "  when 
your  brother  always  came  to  see  us  !  " 

"  He  is  not  my  brother,"  Doris  said  shortly, 
and  grew  scarlet. 

Then  ensued  an  awkward  silence,  interrupted 
by  Doris,  who  asked  to  see  the  children's  school- 
books,  which,  superintended  by  Lotty,  bore 
inspection  well.  They  had  gained  good  instruc- 
tion in  the  time  that  had  passed. 

A  few  days  after  Albert  went  away  on  a 
journey.  It  was  a  hard  parting  for  the  two  girls. 
At  the  last  he  kissed  Doris's  hand,  and  looked  at 
her  earnestly,  deep  down  into  her  eyes.  They 
filled  with  large  tears.  She  wanted  to  say 
something  more,  but  could  not  bring  forth 
a  sound. 

"  I  shall  come  back  in  the  summer,"  he  said, 
and  was  gone. 


165 


Lotty  was  soon  so  well  that  she  could  walk 
and  call  on  Cara,  who  was  so  pleased  to  see  her 
that  she  did  not  want  to  let  her  go.  So  she  was 
engaged  as  companion  and  nurse  for  Cara,  and 
soon  grew  indispensable  to  her. 

In  the  spring  the  family  moved  to  their  castle 
in  the  country,  where  the  poor  invalid  could 
lie  all  day  under  tall  trees.  Albert  soon  came 
there  too,  and  Doris  took  long  rLles  with  him 
through  the  park,  or  they  sat  for  hours  chatting 
with  Cara.  Yet  he  always  found  time  and 
opportunity  to  see  Lotty  alone.  At  first  she 
was  distant  with  him,  but  with  his  heart  -winning 
ways  he  soon  recovered  the  empire  he  had  had  in 
the  little  house  in  the  town  ;  and  she  was  happy 
when  he  said  that  the  parents  insisted  on  marry- 
ing Doris  to  him,  but  that  he  did  not  think  of 
it  for  she  did  not  please  him  at  all.  Cara 


1  66 


noticed  that  there  was  something  amiss  with  her 
Lotty,  but  she  never  dreamed  what  a  fight  the 
girl  was  fighting  with  her  heart,  that  impetuously 
demanded  love  and  happiness,  and  her  con- 
science that  recalled  to  her  her  duties  and  strove 
to  calm  her. 

Doris  guessed  nothing.  She  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  joy  of  having  her  adored  Albert 
beside  her. 

Albert  really  loved  Lotty,  but  he  did  not  want 
to  lose  the  rich  marriage  with  Doris  ;  so  he  was 
full  of  little  delicate  attentions  to  her,  which  in 
quiet  hours  were  counted  up  and  talked  over 
with  Cara.  Lotty  knew  herself  to  be  beloved, 
therefore  her  jealousy  of  Doris  knew  no  bounds. 
Every  kind  look,  every  unconscious  little  joke  of 
Doris's  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  her.  She  had 
to  help  Doris  adorn  herself,  and  see  how  she 


167 


looked  into  the  glass  with  beaming  eyes,  certain 
of  victory,  full  of  hope.  She  had  to  suffer  that 
her  adored  Cara  did  all  to  make  her  sister  appear 
in  the  best  light  to  Albert.  Many  an  evening  in 
the  park  there  ensued  angry  scenes  in  which 
Lotty  broke  forth  into  wild  reproaches,  and 
Albert  made  passionate  love  protestations. 
Lotty  was  proud  ;  she  would  be  his  wife,  and  at 
last  he  promised  her  that  he  would  marry  her 
as  soon  as  he  had  found  a  post  that  insured 
enough  for  them  both.  He  was  soon  to  go 
abroad  to  join  an  embassy. 

Lotty  demanded  that  he  should  say  openly 
at  the  house  that  he  meant  to    marry  her,  but 
this  she  could  not  attain. 
Once  more  Lotty  thought  — 
"If  only  I  were  rich,  like  the  others." 
Many  a  long  night  she  tossed  about  her  black 


1  68  gilgvim 


locks  on  the  pillow,  and  next  day  her  eyes 
glowed  like  coals,  so  that  Albert  grew  almost 
afraid,  and  feared  she  might  make  things  un- 
comfortable for  him.  He  hurried  forward  his 
parting  preparations.  On  the  last  evening  he 
was  in  the  park  with  Doris,  and  began  to  speak 
to  her  of  his  future,  and  that  he  should  come 
back  a  made  man.  Then  he  would  woo  her, 
and  he  hoped  he  should  not  be  refused.  At  the 
last  he  put  a  bracelet  round  her  wrist,  encircled 
her  with  his  arm  and  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  lips. 
Doris  flushed  all  over,  ran  off  to  Cara,  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  the  bed,  kissed  her  hands,  her 
hair,  her  eyes,  and  was  so  wildly  happy  that 
it  grew  almost  too  much  for  the  poor  invalid. 
When  Albert  wanted  to  leave  the  park  Lotty 
stood  before  him  and  looked  at  him  so  sphinx- 
like  that  he  grew  afraid.  He  hoped  she  had 


169 


heard  nothing,  and  took  a  step  forward.  But 
she  struck  him  in  the  face  with  her  fist.  Then 
she  vanished.  She  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  into 
her  room,  and  raved  all  night  long,  bit  her 
pillow,  and  thought  to  die  of  rage  and  despair. 
Albert,  who  slept  little,  could  not  see  Lotty 
again  and  extort  from  her  a  promise  of  silence. 
Twice  he  knocked  at  her  door,  but  she  kept  quiet 
till  he  had  gone  and  then  she  muttered  curses 
after  him.  Next  morning  he  departed  without 
having  seen  her.  Doris  waved  her  hand  after 
him  long,  long  after  he  was  out  of  sight,  and 
wept  blissful  tears.  But  Cara  was  alarmed  when 
she  saw  Lotty.  A  complete  alteration  had 
come  to  her  face  ;  it  was  as  though  something 
had  snapped.  She  had  to  endure  hearing  Albert 
talked  of  incessantly.  Towards  Doris  she  felt  a 
veritable  hatred. 


170  ^ilQvim  Jkrwxrw. 


At  first  there  came  letters  from  Albert,  but 
they  grew  rarer  and  briefer.  After  a  year  there 
came  none.  Doris  had  been  radiantly  happy 
some  time  and  developed  to  rare  beauty.  At  her 
side  Hope  stood  shimmering,  rosy,  like  peach 
blossoms.  By  Cara's  bed  sat  Mother  Patience, 
invisible  to  all,  and  transfigured  the  pale  face 
with  her  calm  presence.  Beside  Lotty  strode 
Envy  and  Hate,  and  tugged  at  her  with  all  their 
might  night  and  day.  In  the  second  year  Hope 
vanished  from  beside  Doris  ;  in  the  third,  the 
girl  crept  wearily  through  the  house  as  though 
each  step  were  leaden.  Lotty  revived  ;  yes, 
Doris  even  noted  that  when  Lotty  combed  her 
hair  she  could  see  in  the  glass  how  her  black 
eyes  sparkled  maliciously,  and  seemed  to  search 
her  weary  face.  Doris's  parents  grew  old  and 
gray  during  these  years  of  waiting.  Albert's 


name  was  never  breathed,  it  was  as  though  he 
was  blotted  out  of  all  their  memories,  and  yet 
all  thought  only  of  him. 

One  morning  Doris  was  sitting  at  breakfast 
with  her  parents.  Cara  was  still  in  bed,  she  was 
never  carried  down  till  later  in  the  day.  The 
father  read  out  of  his  paper,  his  wife  rested  her 
chin  on  her  slender  fingers.  Countless  fine 
lines  had  become  graven  into  her  face,  Care  was 
her  daily  guest ;  yet  she  looked  kindly  from  un- 
der her  gray  hairs  and  her  elegant  cap.  Secretly 
her  glance  sought  the  face  of  her  daughter,  who 
had  leaned  back  wearily  in  her  chair,  toying 
with  a  flower  and  gazing  out  'vacantly  into 
space. 

Sometimes  she  would  look  out  of  the  window, 
and  watch  with  heavy  eyelids  the  falling  of  the 
faded  autumn  leaves,  which  sank  to  earth 


172 


in  the  thick  mist.  A  fire  burnt  in  the  chimney  ; 
it  was  the  only  lively  thing  in  the  room.  Then 
a  letter  was  brought  in  and  given  to  Doris's 
father.  He  twirled  it  between  his  fingers  and 
looked  at  the  address  and  seal.  Doris  had 
glanced  up  indifferently.  Suddenly  every  mus- 
cle of  her  face  trembled,  and  she  rested  large, 
flashing  eyes  upon  her  father,  her  nostrils  quiv- 
ered, and  her  breath  came  short  and  fast. 
"  Oh,  father,  read,  read  quickly  !  " 
He  read  long,  long,  without  speaking  one 
word.  At  last  he  folded  up  the  letter.  Doris's 
torture  was  at  an  end,  she  was  near  to  faint. 

"  Albert  is  coming,"  he  said  gravely,  and 
would  have  gone  on  speaking,  but  from  Doris's 
breast  there  came  a  cry  of  mingled  joy  and  sob- 
bing. She  sprang  up,  embraced  her  mother  and 
rushed  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs  to  Cara. 


i73 


"  Cara,  he  is  coming,  is  coming,"  she  cried, 
and  covered  her  sister  with  kisses. 

Lotty  rushed  to  the  bedside  ;  it  was  as  though 
a  fallen  angel  looked  at  the  happy  girl.  At 
last  harshly  and  roughly  she  muttered— 

"Who  knows  what  he  has  become." 

Doris  felt  the  poisoned  dart,  but  before  she 
could  answer  her  mother  called  her  down.  As 
she  entered  the  room  she  saw  her  father  pacing 
up  and  down  restlessly.  He  did  not  notice  her. 
Her  mother  sat  in  a  little  armchair  beside  the 
fire,  staring  into  the  embers.  Doris  noticed 
every  thing  at  a  glance.  It  was  as  though  some- 
thing heavy  and  cold  fell  upon  her  heart. 

"  Come  here,  dear  child,"  said  her  mother  ; 
"kneel  down  here,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you.  You  have  always  trusted  us,  have  you  not, 
my  child  ?  You  always  believed  that  we  have 


174 


felt  your  sufferings  too,  and  have  felt  them  the 
more  that  we  could  not  help  you  ?  " 

Doris  could  not  speak,  she  kissed  her  mother's 
hand  and  looked  at  her  again  with  large,  glow- 
ing eyes. 

"  If,  then,  I  tell  you  that  Albert  is  not  worthy 
of  you,  my  child  will  believe  it,  will  she  not  ? 
He  has  not  kept  good  ;  it  is  said  he  has  gam- 
bled away  his  fortune,  and  we  should  not  like 
him  to  ask  the  hand  of  our  daughter  merely  in 
order  to  pay  his  debts.  I  know  you  will  be 
proud  and  meet  him  as  it  becomes  your  maid- 
enly dignity.  You  will  let  him  see  nothing  of 
your  soul's  combat  and  woe,  but  meet  him  as 
he  deserves." 

"  When  will  he  come  ?  "  said  Doris,  curtly, 
Her  voice  was  hard. 

"  In  a  few  days;  we  cannot  forbid  him  the 


175 


house  for  his  mother's  sake.      I  count  on  you, 
my  child." 

Doris's  eyes  flashed.  She  raised  herself  and 
stood  her  full  height  ;  she  seemed  to  have 
grown,  and  looked  defiant,  ready  for  fight. 
Without  a  word  she  went  outside  into  the  mist. 
She  paced  the  park  for  hours,  heedless  of  the- 
paths  and  ways  ;  she  painted  to  her  mind  that 
meeting,  how  cold  and  proud  she  would  be. 
She  snapped  off  the  twigs  as  she  passed,  and 
crunched  them  with  her  white  teeth.  It  seem- 
ed to  her  as  though  she  never  could  go  home, 
as  though  she  must  thus  rove  the  wood 
for  ever.  When  she  came  back  to  the  house 
at  last,  her  hair,  dress,  and  eyebrows  were 
covered  with  glistening  drops.  She  looked 
into  the  glass  that  reflected  her  hard-drawn 
face. 


1  76 


"  The  wood,"  she  said,  "  has  had  pity  on  me; 
those  are  its  tears." 

She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  in  to 
Cara  ;  she  felt  as  though  she  could  not  bear  her 
affection.  Cara  wept  in  her  father's  arms.  He 
dried  the  tears  she  was  shedding  for  her  sister,  and 
spoke  to  her  tenderly.  Lotty  clenched  her  fists. 

"  She  shall  not  have  him  as  long  as  I  live." 

Henceforward  Doris  went  often  into  the  wood, 
especially  along  the  path  beside  the  old  willow- 
trees.  The  sun  still  shone  warmly  there,  and 
that  did  good  to  Doris,  who  could  not  get  rid 
of  a  feeling  of  cold.  Once  she  leaned  exhaust- 
ed against  a  mighty  trunk  ;  she  had  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  aching  heart,  and  closed  her 
eyes.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  voice  close  by  her, 
whose  tone  made  her  shrink  together  as  a  flow- 
er does  in  spring  rain  — 


177 


"  Doris." 

And  there  stood  Albert,  with  the  same  lovely 
eyes,  the  same  charm  of  movement,  and  yet 
how  changed.  He  held  out  his  hand  towards 
her.  She  laid  her  icy  fingertips  into  his  ;  but 
when  she  wanted  to  draw  back  her  hand  he  re- 
tained it. 

"  Am  I  to  be  condemned  unheard  ?  "  he 
asked  gently,  and  smiled  so  sweetly  that  Doris 
could  not  be  as  distant  and  cold  as  she  had  re- 
solved. 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  spoke 
eagerly  and  earnestly,  accused  and  defended 
himself  at  the  same  time,  reminded  her  of  their 
sweet  love  that  could  not  possibly  be  vanished 
and  fled  ;  ay,  he  read  it  in  her  face  that  she  had 
thought  of  him,  while  poor  Doris,  now  red,  now 
pale,  could  merely  look  at  him.  When  he 


178 


turned  to  go  to  the  house  and  greet  his  aunt, 
she  remained  outside,  for  an  awkward  friend, 
Conscience,  told  her  that  she  had  not  been  all 
that  her  parents  expected. 

They  did  not  repeat  their  injunction,  and 
the  meetings  in  the  park  grew  more  and  more 
frequent  ;  a  correspondence  even  ensued  that 
was  intrusted  to  a  hollow  willow.  Doris's 
mother  noticed  a  strange,  wild  look  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  but  she  put  this  down  to  the  struggle  her 
child  was  undergoing. 

Often  Doris  would  have  opened  her  lips  to 
confess,  but  always  closed  them  again.  Daily 
she  grew  more  irritable,  spoke  in  hollow  tones, 
and  laughed  at  every  thing.  Lotty  knew  ex- 
actly all  that  went  on.  She  bided  her  time, 
ready  to  spring  like  a  cat  whenever  the  hour 
should  be  ripe.  One  day  Doris  could  not  get 


179 


out,  and  so  begged  Lotty,  in  a  seemingly  in- 
different tone,  to  carry  a  letter  to  the  tree. 
Lotty  held  the  letter  between  her  fingers  and 
looked  now  at  it,  now  at  Doris. 

"  Well,"  said  Doris,  sharply,  but  without 
looking  up,  "  is  it  inconvenient  to  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Lotty,  carelessly,  went  towards 
the  door,  and  then  came  back  beside  Doris. 

"  I  shall  only  carry  that  letter,"  she  said, 
"  after  I  have  told  you  what  manner  of  man 
your  lover  is." 

Lotty  looked  so  fierce  that  Doris  shuddered. 

"  He  loved  me,  me,  long  before  he  loved  you  : 
me  he  has  kissed  many  hundred  rimes  in  this 
very  park  ere  ever  he  gave  you  the  one  that 
made  you  so  happy  ;  me  he  promised  to  wed. 
It  is  me  he  called  his  dear  heart,  his  love,  all 
the  soft  names  he  has  called  you  ;  and  on  the 


i  So 


evening  you  were  betrothed  to  him,  I  hit  him 
in  his  face,  and  now  he  is  so  vile  that  no  decent 
girl  would  wish  to  have  him  ;  and  you,  you 
carry  on  a  secret  love  affair  with  him." 

Doris  grew  giddy  ;  but  before  she  had  taken 
in  the  full  sense  of  these  words,  Lotty  had  left 
the  room  and  did  not  re-appear. 

The  following  evening,  when  Lotty  had  just 
got  into  bed,  Doris  stood  before  her  like  a 
ghost.  She  shook  her  arms  and  said  — 

"  Come  !  " 

She  followed  Doris  into  her  room.  The  girl 
shut  and  locked  the  door,  and  pocketed  the  key. 

"  Now  tell  it  me  all  again,"  she  said,  speaking 
with  effort. 

Lotty  no  longer  felt  the  satisfaction  she  had 
experienced  that  first  moment.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  weakness,  and  told  her  tale 


181 


with  hesitation  and  with  reserve.  While  she 
did  so  she  had  ever  to  look  at  Doris,  who  grew 
momentarily  more  haggard,  and  who  bent  her- 
self twice,  thrice  ;  whether  in  physical  or  men- 
tal pain  Lotty  did  not  know.  Suppressing  a 
low  moan,  she  drew  a  small  roll  of  paper  from 
her  pocket,  and  smiled  with  trembling  lips. 

"  You  have  avenged  yourself  on  me  ;  now  is 
your  turn  with  him  ;  you  owe  me  this,  for  you 
should  have  spared  me  this  agony.  To-morrow 
morning  you  go  to  town  and  give  him  this  ;  you 
yourself  must  give  it  to  him  ;  I  demand  it." 

Scarcely  had  Doris  uttered  these  words  than 
she  began  to  moan  piteously,  and  flow  followed 
a  night  during  which  Lotty  was  terrified  by  the 
sufferings  of  her  young  mistress.  Constantly 
she  tried  to  get  the  key  and  call  the  family; 
Doris  would  not  let  her. 


1  82  gilgvim 


11  No,"she  said  ;  "we  two  must  pass  this  night 
alone  together." 

Only  when  consciousness  began  to  leave  her, 
Lotty  succeeded  in  wrenching  the  key  from  her 
clenched  hands.  She  called  up  the  parents, 
who  arrived  but  in  time  to  receive  their  daugh- 
ter's last  breath.  She  opened  her  eyes  once 
again,  knew  her  mother,  kissed  each  of  her  fin- 
gertips and  whispered  — 

"  Farewell,    mother  ;    farewell,     forgive  me." 

Then  a  last  terrible  spasm  shook  her,  and 
when  the  sun  rose  she  was  a  corpse.  While 
the  parents  were  with  Cara,  trying  to  break  the 
news  gently  to  the  poor  invalid,  Lotty  slipped 
away  into  her  own  room.  There  she  unrolled 
the  paper  and  read  — 

"  Could  I  have  believed  in  you,  I  should 
have  lived.  —  DORIS." 


183 


Then  she  set  out  for  the  town  and  sought 
out  Albert,  who  was  still  in  bed  sleeping  rest- 
lessly. Lotty  looked  at  him  long  and  severely. 
Her  gaze  was  so  savage  that  a  feeling  of  fear 
shot  through  him  and  woke  him.  He  started 
up. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  cried  aghast. 

Lotty  handed  him  the  paper  without  speaking 
a  word,  and  before  he  had  unfolded  it  she  had 
gone. 

He  threw  on  his  clothes  and  hurried  after 
her,  but  he  could  not  find  her.  He  ran  about 
all  day  :  he  hovered  round  the  castle,  he  chased 
through  the  park.  He  looked  as  though  the 
Furies  pursued  him.  At  last  he  went  home, 
sat  down  to  his  desk,  and  began  to  turn  over  a 
pile  of  dirty  papers.  Great  drops  stood  on  his 
brow.  In  the  evening  he  went  to  see  a  friend, 


1  84  H?iX0vim 


and  gambled  the  whole  night.  In  a  short  time 
he  had  won  large  sums,  but  then  a  few  days 
after  he  lost  them  all  again,  those  and  much 
more  besides.  One  morning  he  tottered  into 
his  room,  loaded  a  pistol  and  shot  himself. 

Lotty  got  home  unnoticed  as  she  had  gone 
out  ;  but  as  she  entered  Sorrow  stood  in  front 
of  her,  and  her  eyes  were  so  terrible  that  Lotty 
fell  down  before  her  on  the  earth  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  But  when  Sorrow 
began  to  speak,  Lotty  was  seized  with  trem- 
bling at  the  stern  words  that  fell  upon  her  like 
hammer  blows  ;  she  writhed  on  the  ground  like 
a  worm,  but  Sorrow  was  inexorable. 

"  You  have  done  your  work  well,"  she  said  ; 
"you  have  avenged  yourself.  But  on  whom? 
On  those  who  have  done  you  kindness  from  the 
first  hour  when  they  raised  you  out  of  misery 


185 


and  wretchedness,  those  to  whom  you  owe  all 
—your  life,  your  health  —  who  have  treated  you 
as  a  child  and  a  sister.  They  were  happy  be- 
fore I  brought  them  to  your  house,  and  what 
are  they  now  ?  I  know  you  wrant  to  throw 
yourself  into  the  water,  but  I  will  not  suffer  it, 
for  you  need  a  whole  long  life  to  make  good 
the  thoughts  that  have  poisoned  your  youth. 
You  must  give  up  your  whole  strength  to  poor 
Cara,  beside  whose  bed  you  will  yet  often  see 
me,  and  take  care  that  you  need  not  tremble 
before  my  face,  as  you  must  to-day.  Cara 
needs  you,  for  her  parents  are  broken  down, 
and  only  through  boundless  self-sacrifice  may 
you  dare  to  hope  for  forgiveness.  As  yet  I 
cannot  accord  it." 

Once  more  it  was  Christmas  Eve.     A  beauti- 
ful tree  was  alight  in  the  little  house.     Lotty 


1  86 


had  brought  it  there  in  Cara's  name.  The 
children  had  red  cheeks  and  shouted  joyously. 
The  mother  too  had  grown  to  look  younger 
and  smiled  often.  Only  Lotty  was  pale  as 
death  and  dark  as  remorse. 

"  Here  my  mother  looks  at  me,"  she  thought  ; 
"and  thinks  Lotty  has  grown  bad;  and  there 
Doris's  mother  looks  at  me  and  thinks,  '  Had 
you  but  called  me  we  could  have  saved  the 
child.'  Oh  that  I  had  starved  to  death  !  " 

In  the  castle  a  shaded  lamp  burnt  beside 
Cara's  bed.  Her  father  was  reading  to  her  with 
weary  voice,  the  mother  sat  by,  stroked  the 
girl's  hands,  and  dried  the  heavy,  slow-falling 
tears  that  rolled  down  her  child's  face  with  a 
soft  handkerchief.  Cara  had  not  spoken  all  the 
evening.  Only  once  she  asked  — 

"  Is  not  this  Christmas  Eve  ?  " 


MEDUSA. 


HDefcusa, 

]HE  waters  tossed  and  foamed  through 
the  huge  rocks  that  were  pressed  so 
close  together  that  up  amid  the 
heights  a  strip  of  blue  sky  was  scarcely  to  be 
seen.  Upon  a  narrow  slippery  path,  alongside 
the  oozy  rocky  walls,  ran  Sorrow,  as  fast  as 
though  the  path  were  sure  and  the  surroundings 
a  flowery  meadow.  The  rushing  waters  threat- 
ened every  moment  to  ingulf  her.  Their 
thunder,  repeated  by  a  thousand  echoes,  seemed 
to  grow  yet  louder,  and  sounded  so  menacing 


190 


as  though  the  audacious  pilgrim  must  turn  back 
before  them.  But  with  burning  cheeks  Sorrow 
hurried  onwards,  and  her  long  black  hair  floated 
behind  her  like  a  somber  cloud.  Her  nostrils 
quivered,  her  lips  opened  and  shut,  with  out- 
stretched arms  she  whispered  or  called  some- 
thing, but  the  sound  died  away  before  it  was 
spoken.  Her  eyes  stared  into  space  as  though 
she  would  search  the  depths,  and  yet  they  had 
fain  be  cast  down,  for  the  gorge  narrowed  and 
the  last  trace  of  a  path  was  inundated  by  the 
water.  Beneath  her  surged  a  whirlpool,  above 
her  rushed  the  water,  rushed  down  in  ever  new 
masses  ;  now  it  sounded  like  song,  now  like 
moaning  voices,  now  like  pealing  thunder.  One 
moment  she  halted,  then  she  raised  her  thin 
skirts  and  began  to  wade  through  the  water 
where  the  rocks  had  quieted  it  a  little  and 


191 


scooped  out  a  place  large  enough  for  her  small 
feet.  With  one  hand  she  held  herself  against 
the  rocky  wall  and  looked  from  time  to  time 
into  the  depths  where  yawned  the  opening  of  a 
cavern.  At  the  risk  of  death  she  reached  the 
entrance  and  stood  still  a  second,  breathing 
deeply.  Once  more  her  gaze  eagerly  swept  the 
sides  of  the  cliffs  ;  there  was  no  projection  on 
which  to  gain  a  footing,  no  bird  could  have 
stood  there.  Out  of  the  cavern's  mouth  there 
gushed  water,  and  it  too  offered  no  road.  One 
more  look  did  she  cast  back,  then  she  resolutely 
entered  the  cave  and  groped  through  it  in  the 
dark,  along  the  wet  stones.  Often  she  sank 
deep  into  the  waters.  When  she  lost  sight  of 
the  last  sheen  of  daylight  she  resolved  to  wade, 
and  did  not  feel  in  the  icy  cold  of  the  water 
how  the  stones  cut  her  feet.  At  last  a  red  spot 


192 


gleamed.  She  thought  it  was  the  daylight  out- 
side the  cavern.  Then  the  space  enlarged.  In 
this  impenetrable  darkness  there  was  a  huge 
vault  adorned  with  columns  and  capitals  and 
ornaments  of  all  kinds.  Darting  lights  and 
shades  quivered  through  the  hall,  which  re- 
echoed with  the  sound  of  weeping  and  moaning. 
It  was  a  confusion  of  sobbing  women,  whimper- 
ing children,  groaning,  sighing  men,  and  every 
flash  of  light  seemed  to  increase  the  misery. 
Sorrow  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  breast  and 
panted.  She  was  so  dazzled  that  at  first  she 
could  not  see  whence  these  lightnings  came  ; 
the  horrible  sounds  about  her  made  her  giddy. 
She  leaned  against  one  of  the  shining  columns 
and  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  sought  to 
follow  the  water-course  and  so  discover  the  exit. 
There  she  beheld  a  colossal  man,  as  tall,  rough, 


193 


and  angular  as  the  columns  around.  His  ardent 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  In  his  hand  he  held 
the  lightnings,  which  from  time  to  time  he 
threw  across  the  cave  like  fiery  arrows  or  blue 
snakes. 

"  Come  here,  little  Sorrow,"  he  called  in  a 
voice  of  thunder.  "  Have  you  found  your  way 
to  me  ?  Come  here,  for  you  are  mine." 

Sorrow  clung  to  the  pillar  against  which  she 
leaned  and  seized  one  of  its  pendent  points. 
Pale  as  death,  she  glared  at  the  monster  who 
beckoned  to  her. 

"  I  will  not  come  to  you,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I 
do  not  know  you.  I  seek  for  Peace-  whom  I  saw 
go  in  here,  and  I  am  hurrying  after  him.  Oh," 
she  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands  ;  "  oh,  have  you 
hidden  him  here,  or  perchance  killed  him,  you 
terrible  man  ?  " 


194 


"  I  am  Pain.  Peace  is  not  here,  but  beyond 
this  cave,  in  the  happy  valley." 

"  Show  me  the  exit  that  I  may  follow  him  ;  " 
and  Sorrow  sank  down  on  her  knees  imploringly. 

The  fearful  man  laughed,  and  his  laughter 
was  louder  than  the  rushing  and  thundering  of 
the  waters,  more  terrible  than  the  sound  of 
moaning  round  about. 

"  No,  child  ;  you  and  I,  we  do  not  belong  to 
the  happy  valley,  and  the  exit  thither  is  barred 
to  us  by  the  weepers  who  fill  this  cave,  and  who 
are  our  victims.  We  two  belong  together. 
You  shall  be  my  wife,  and  we  will  seek  a  spot 
to  fix  our  dwelling." 

"  Your  wife!  " 

The  words  came  from  Sorrow's  breast  like 
a  cry,  but  they  were  drowned  in  laughter. 
Then  she  darted  up  and  turned  to  fly.  But 


195 


her  arm  was  seized  in  such  a  grip  that  she 
thought  it  would  break,  and  Pain  swung  his 
lightnings  over  her  head. 

"  If  ever  you  flee  from  me,"  he  roared,  "  one 
of  these  shall  fall  on  you,  and  what  you  will 
then  feel  will  be  so  horrible  that  crushed,  burnt, 
tortured,  you  will  scarcely  be  able  to  moan  like 
these  wretches.  I  will  show  them  to  you." 

He  lifted  the  hand  that  held  the  lightnings 
and  illuminated  the  whole  space.  No  human 
words  can  tell  what  fearful  forms  filled  it.  Of 
every  age  and  sex  stricken  ones  lay  around. 
They  wound  themselves  in  agony,  they  lacer- 
ated themselves  with  their  fists,  they  clawed  the 
stones  and  with  the  nails  of  their  hands  and 
feet  tried  to  raise  themselves.  Horrid  wounds 
were  held  under  the  falling  drops  to  cool  them. 
Women  writhed  in  eternal  birth-throes  and 


196 


could  not  bring  forth  ;  children  beat  their  heads 
sore  against  the  rocky  walls  to  overpower  the 
pain  that  gnawed  their  entrails.  Many  lay  on 
their  knees  and  wrung  their  hands  and  beat 
their  breasts  in  unextinguishable  remorse. 
Others  lay  motionless,  as  though  dead,  only 
their  eyes  moved  slowly  in  their  sockets,  follow- 
ing the  direction  of  the  light.  Sorrow  veiled 
her  face  and  tottered  ;  Pain  caught  her  in  his 
arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  breast. 

"  As  great  as  are  these  agonies,  so  great  is 
my  love,"  he  said. 

Sorrow  wept  passionately. 

"  How  could  you  think  Peace  could  be  yours. 
You  have  nothing  in  common  with  him.  You 
are  mine  ;  you  belong  to  me.  I  have  loved  you 
in  your  deeds  without  beholding  you  ;  your 
traces  delighted  my  eyes." 


197 


He  drew  her  hands  away  from  her  face  and 
kissed  her.  Sorrow  closed  her  eyes  that  she 
might  not  see  him,  but  under  her  dark  lids  tears 
welled  forth,  which  he  kissed  away. 

"  Weep,  weep,  my  little  maid  ;  your  t^arsare 
dew,  far  fairer  than  your  laughter,  they  refresh 
and  cheer  me." 

She  tried  to  get  loose  from  him,  but  he  held 
her  with  his  iron  grasp. 

"  If  you  are  afraid  here,"  he  said,  "  I  will  bear 
you  to  a  sweet  spot  and  win  you  there  with 
violence." 

He  hastily  raised  the  trembling  maiden  in 
his  arms,  threw  a  lightning  in  front,  of  him  that 
traced  a  line  of  light  along  the  whole  dark 
passage,  and  wading  through  the  waters  that 
seemed  to  retreat  from  his  feet,  he  hurried  to 
the  cavern's  mouth.  He  bore  her  past  the 


198 


waterfall,  and  when  he  let  her  glide  to  earth,  he 
took  hold  of  her  hand,  as  though  he  feared  she 
would  escape  him.  She  often  looked  back  and 
tried  to  think  of  the  happy  valley,  but  to  her 
mental  vision  there  ever  appeared  only  the  cave 
with  its  desperate  inhabitants.  She  hoped  the 
terrible  man  might  grow  weary,  and  then  if  sleep 
overcame  him,  she  could  flee  ;  therefore  she 
complained  of  fatigue.  But  Pain  was  never 
weary  ;  he  instantly  carried  her  again,  and 
went  onwards  yet  faster. 

"  Be  happy,"  he  said,  "  for  now  at  least  some 
one  carries  you." 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  his  gleaming 
eyes.  Then  a  great  sense  of  weakness  came  over 
her,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  they  were 
going  backwards,  as  though  the  rushing  of  the 
river  came  ever  nearer,  as  though  his  eyes 


199 


pierced  her  breast.  Powerless  to  speak  or  move, 
she  lay  in  the  arms  of  Pain.  Oh,  where  —  where 
was  her  brother  Death,  who  could  have  freed 
her?  Where  her  father  Strife?  He  would 
have  wrestled  with  her  captor.  Or  was  he  too 
powerless  against  this  all-mighty  Pain  ?  She 
would  have  prayed  the  river,  the  trees,  the 
grasses  to  help  her,  but  they  did  not  see  her 
need.  At  last  she  lost  consciousness,  and  when 
she  woke  she  lay  under  a  rock  amid  deep  hot 
sand  —  no  tree,  no  song  of  bird,  no  murmur  of 
waters  ;  only  sand,  yellow  burning  sand  and 
golden  air  that  quivered  in  the  heat. 

"  My  wife,"  said  Pain,  and  his  eyes  burnt  like 
the  sand  and  the  air,  and  seemed  to  drain 
Sorrow's  life  blood.  Her  tears  began  to  flow 
anew. 

"  Oh  !  how  thirsty  I  am,"  she  moaned. 


Pain  looked  at  her  with  satisfaction. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  was  it  not  beautiful  in  that 
cool  gorge,  so  near  to  the  cold  foaming  river? 
Do  you  recall  how  clear  it  was,  and  how  it 
gushed  out  of  the  rocks  ?  It  came  from  the 
happy  valley,  that  is  so  full  of  luscious  fruits, 
fruits  such  as  you  have  never  beheld.  Shall  I 
show  it  you  ?  " 

At  his  words  Sorrow's  eyes  had  grown  ever 
bigger,  her  lips  more  parched. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  panted,  and  behold,  away, 
across  the  sand,  there  shimmered  in  the  air.  a 
broad  stream,  and  beside  it  were  shady  trees 
laden  with  fruits.  Without  knowing  what  she 
did,  Sorrow  sprang  up  and  ran  to  the  river  as 
fast  as  she  could,  through  the  deep  sand,  under 
the  scorching  sunbeams.  But  the  river  seemed 
to  retreat  ever  further  from  her,  and  at  last 


it  had  vanished.  At  the  same  moment  Pain 
laughed  behind  her,  and  it  sounded  as  though 
the  whole  desert  laughed. 

"  Do  you  now  see  that  you  are  wholly  in  my 
power ;  you  can  even  only  think  as  I  will. 
Here  is  water." 

He  showed  her  a  few  trees  that  overshadowed 
a  well.  Sorrow  fell  down  beside  it  and  drank 
eager  draughts.  Then  she  sank  into  a  deep  sleep. 
When  she  woke  the  trees  were  withered,  the  \vell 
dried  up,  and  there  was  again  nothing  but  sand 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

"  Do  you  see,"  said  Pain,  "  we  are  stronger 
than  the  sun  and  the  desert  wind;  all  must 
vanish  before  our  might.  Wherever  we  have 
passed  pestilence  has  broken  out,  towns  and 
villages  are  burnt  ;  and  where  we  set  up  our 
dwelling  the  earth  grows  a  desert." 


Sorrow  wrung  her  hands.  She  sprang  up 
and  hurried  forward.  A  whole  long  day  she 
sped  on,  on,  and  did  not  see  that  he  followed. 
At  evening  he  came  towards  her  and  laughed, 
and  laughed  so  long  that  the  whole  desert  grew 
noisy,  and  hyenas  and  jackals  began  to  howl, 
and  lions  approached  roaring.  But  Pain  held 
them  in  check  with  his  look  of  fire,  so  that  they 
only  walked  round  them  from  afar  off  all  the 
night.  When  day  dawned  the  wild  beasts 
withdrew. 

"  Oh,"  said  Sorrow,  "  I  die  of  fear.  Take  rne 
away  from  here,  wherever  you  will,  only  away 
from  this  heat,  these  horrid  beasts." 

"  Do  you  want  coolness,  love  ?  You  shall 
have  it." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  fast 
as  the  wind  towards  the  north,  ever  further, 


203 


past  the  homes  of  men,  past  fields  and  cities, 
across  the  ocean,  which  he  waded  through,  up 
to  the  North.  There  lay  a  lovely  islet,  and 
birches  shook  their  tender  foliage  in  the  fresh 
breezes. 

"  Here  we  will  found  our  happy  valley,"  said 
Pain,  and  beckoned. 

And  as  he  beckoned  the  wind  blew  colder 
and  sharper,  the  grass  crackled  under  his  feet 
as  it  withered  and  froze,  and  from  the  ocean 
there  neared  crystal  mountains  that  came  closer 
and  closer  to  the  land,  and  the  wind  that  drove 
them  to  shore  howled  dismally.  Soon  the 
whole  air  was  filled  with  snow  that  whirled 
from  above,  from  below,  from  all  sides,  choking 
like  fine  sand.  Ice-blocks  were  piled  upon  ice- 
blocks,  there  was  much  thundering  and  crack- 
ling, but  at  last  all  was  still,  wrapped  in  snow 


204 


and  awful  silence.  The  transparent  rocks 
stared  up  to  the  heavens  like  frozen  joy.  Pain 
flung  a  lightning  dart  into  the  ice.  It  bored  a 
blue-green  glistening  cave  in  which  he  laid 
Sorrow. 

"  Do  you  stay  here  and  rest,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
will  search  for  a  verdant  spot.  But  do  not  stir 
from  here,  for  out  of  the  ice-fields  you  will 
never  find  your  road  back  to  the  happy 
valley." 

Scarcely  had  he  gone  than  Sorrow  felt  her 
frozen  blood  revive,  and  the  terrible  woe  in  her 
breast  seemed  to  yield.  First  she  leaned  on 
her  hand  and  peeped  out,  then  she  knelt  and 
breathed  on  her  numbed  fingers,  then  she 
stepped  outside.  There  towered  blocks  of  ice  ; 
here  snow  was  spread  in  endless  extent.  She 
knew  that  the  snow  covered  the  island  and  the 


205 


ice-blocks  the  sea,  and  it  was  over  the  ice- 
blocks  she  must  wander,  for  otherwise  she 
could  not  get  across  it.  She  began  to  slip 
through  the  cracks  and  crevices,  to  jump  from 
one  block  to  another,  following  the  sunbeams 
that  alone  marked  a  track  for  her.  She  did 
not  rest  when  night  came  for  fear  she  should  be 
pursued.  Twice  she  went  round  the  island 
without  knowing  it,  in  her  senseless  fear  ;  but 
at  last  the  sun  led  her  out  of  the  ice-bound 
world  and  across  the  first  green  blades  of  grass. 
Then  she  sank  down  for  very  weariness.  How 
she  found  her  road  back  to  the  mountain  gorge 
she  never  knew.  She  entered  it  trembling.  If 
he  was  already  here,  he  from  whom  she  had 
fled,  then  she  was  lost.  After  her  wanderings 
upon  the  ice,  this  road  seemed  to  be  quite  easy, 
and  her  fearful  glances  around  were  not 


206 


directed  to  the  masses  of  water  that  poured 
down  yet  more  wildly  than  when  she  had  first 
come  here,  and  which  seemed  to  threaten  her 
tender  form  at  every  moment,  as  though  they 
would  sweep  her  away  like  a  leaf.  Trembling 
in  every  limb,  and  with  chattering  teeth, 
Sorrow  entered  the  dreadful  cave. 

It  was  dark,  and  the  confusion  of  voices 
sounded  painfully  through  the  vaults.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  herself  surrounded  on  all  sides, 
and  held  by  her  hands  and  clothes. 

"  I  will  not  let  you  go  before  you  liberate 
me,"  a  voice  sounded  at  her  ear. 

"  Give  me  back  happiness,"  moaned  another. 

"  Make  me  well  again,"  cried  a  third. 

"We  are  but  echoes  of  the  woes  of  earth," 
they  cried  ;  "  but  you  shall  hear  us,  though 
you  stay  here  forever." 


207 


"  But  I  cannot  help  you,"  wailed  Sorrow. 

"Yes,"  they  shrieked  ;  "you  can  bring  woe, 
but  you  will  not  free  us.  Revenge  !  revenge  !  " 

And  Sorrow  felt  herself  pressed  against  the 
angular  columns,  and  in  the  noise  that  clamored 
round  her,  she  heard  — 

"  Bind  her,  bind  her,  tear  out  her  heart. 
Blind  the  eyes  of  her  who  has  brought  so  much 
woe." 

In  her  fear  she  cried  — 

"Beware  what  you  do,  Pain  comes  behind 
me,  and  terrible  will  be  his  revenge  if  you  hurt 
a  hair  of  my  head." 

Then  she  forced  a  road  for  herself  and  ran  on, 
on  to  the  spot  where  she  fancied  was  the  out- 
let. She  groped  a  long  while  along  the  drip- 
ping wall?,  but  just  as  she  had  found  it,  she 
felt  herself  held  anew,  and  a  voice  said  — 


2o8 


"And  what  will  Pain  do  to  you  if  you  flee 
thither?  Kiss  me,  or  I  will  betray  you. 

"  Do  not  kiss  him,  his  face  is  quite  muti- 
lated," called  another  voice. 

"I  will  betray  you,"  was  whispered  into  her 
ear.  "  I  will  hold  you  fast  until  Pain  comes. 
Kiss  me." 

Sorrow  bent  down  trembling,  and  touched  a 
hideous  mass  with  her  delicate  lips  ;  then  she 
freed  herself  shuddering,  and  fled  on  again  along 
the  dark  passage.  She  had  to  bend  nearly 
double,  it  grew  so'  low.  She  dipped  her  hand 
in  the  water  and  washed  her  face.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  never  advanced,  as  if  she  would 
never  reach  the  end.  At  last  there  shone  a 
bright  spot  that  slowly  grew  larger.  There,  yes, 
there,  gleamed  the  dear  sun  ;  there  must  be  the 
happy  valley.  But  how,  if  Peace,  whom  she 


209 


had  sought  in  vain  over  the  whole  earth,  were 
there  no  longer!  But  if  he  were  not,  she  could 
at  least  follow  in  his  footsteps,  and  rest  there 
where  he  had  passed. 

Now  the  outlet  of  the  cave  yawned,  and 
Sorrow  stood  still  dazzled.  Whatever  there 
was  that  was  fair  on  earth,  whatever  could  be 
pictured  of  power  and  beauty,  was  all  collected 
in  that  valley  —  luscious  greenery,  wealth  of 
flowers  that  covered  the  earth  or  crept  along 
the  giant  trees  in  lovely  garlands,  trees  that  no 
ax  had  ever  touched,  and  a  singing  of  birds 
like  heavenly  music.  A  deep  green  lake  reflect- 
ed all  this  beauty  ;  deer  and  gazelles  stood 
around  it  and  drank. 

At  Sorrow's  feet  shone  strawberries  in  rich  red 
masses,  above  her  head  hovered  a  bird  of  para- 
dise, the  tip  of  his  golden  tail  touched  her  hair. 


ro 


Suddenly  Sorrow  heard  a  voice,  at  whose 
tones  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  heart  leapt 
from  her  mouth.  At  first  it  sounded  so  soft,  so 
full  and  gentle,  like  purest  melody ;  then  it 
seemed  to  retreat.  Sorrow  held  her  breath. 
Now  again  it  came  nearer,  and  at  last  she  could 
hear  the  words. 

"  You  are  the  only  maid  on  earth  whom  I  can 
love,  and  you  will  not  stay  with  me  !  Is  it  not 
fair  enough  here  to  please  you  ?  " 

To  whom  were  these  words  spoken,  for  whom 
the  caressing  sound  of  that  voice  ?  Sorrow  bent 
back  a  branch  and  beheld  Peace  with  his 
heavenly  eyes,  calm  like  a  deep  lake,  and  his 
radiant  face  of  blooming  youth.  Sorrow  was  so 
sunk  in  contemplation  that  she  forgot  herself, 
her  existence,  and  the  sufferings  she  had  endur- 
ed. Her  soul  was  in  her  eyes  and  quaffed  eag- 


211 


erly  this  first  refreshment.  Then  another  face 
came  to  view.  Sorrow  at  once  recognized  Work 
by  her  bright  blue  eyes  and  the  waving  of  her 
golden  locks.  She  was  blushing  and  tending 
her  sweet  lips  to  Peace.  How  lovely  they  both 
were  under  the  green  half  shadows  of  the  broad 
leaves  !  Sorrow  held  her  breath,  the  branch 
trembled  in  her  hand. 

"  Do  not  go  back  to  earth,"  Peace  pleaded  ; 
"you  know  what  that  is  like." 

"  I  must,  I  must,"  said  Work.  "  I  am  the 
comforter  in  all  need,  I  have  dried  the  tears  of 
even  Sorrow  herself." 

"  Oh  do  not  speak  of  Sorrow  heje." 

"  Have  you  ever  beheld  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  beheld  her  !  "  and  Peace's  eyes  grew 
veiled  ;  "  and  she  destroyed  my  heaven  with  her 
ugly  eyes.  I  have  fled  from  her  across  the 


whole  world  and  hidden  here  from  her  sight,  for 
through  that  awful  cave  she  will  not  come. 
Her  victims  will  not  let  her  pass,  if  ever  she 
sets  foot  in  it." 

At  that  instant  the  poor  listener  felt  herself 
seized  in  an  iron  grasp,  and  the  cry  that  would 
have  issued  from  her  was  stifled  by  a  strong 
hand.  She  reeled  back  through  the  dark  pas- 
sage, into  the  cavern  in  which  lightning  flamed. 
Now  she  was  forcibly  bound  and  before  her 
stood  Pain  in  towering  passion. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  you,  faithless  one?"  he 
gnashed. 

"  Revenge,  revenge !  "  resounded  from  all 
sides,  and  a  rain  of  stones  hit  the  defenseless 
one. 

Sorrow  sank  on  her  knees,  but  Pain  raised 
her. 


2  1  3 


"  No,"  he  said,  "  she  is  not  to  be  given  over 
to  you,  for  she  must  return  to  earth  ;  but  I  will 
return  her  to  earth  in  such  a  manner  that  she 
shall  with  unconcern  do  yet  more  mischief  than 
heretofore." 

He  seized  Sorrow  by  her  hair  and  drew  her 
forth  relentlessly,  away  from  the  howls  of  the 
cave  which  pursued  her  long. 

It  was  twilight  outside  ;  under  the  rocks  it 
was  already  night.  Sorrow  was  dragged  on- 
wards, she  knew  not  how,  she  knew  not  whither. 
Now  she  flew  up  the  mountain  sides,  ever 
higher,  higher,  dragged,  when  her  tottering 
knees  would  no  longer  bear  her,^  across  bare 
stones  and  through  thorn-bushes.  A  fearful 
storm  raged.  At  last  she  reached  a  high  moun- 
tain top  on  which  there  was  only  room  for  her 
foot.  Here  she  stood  a  second  above  the 


dark-threatening  mountain  forest  lashed  by 
the  wind,  high  and  free,  above  the  mountains 
and  the  clefts,  above  the  firs  and  the  waters, 
alone  in  the  world.  She  no  longer  felt,  she  did 
not  see  Pain  who  cowered  near  to  her  on  a 
rocky  ledge  and  waited.  Now  he  raised  his 
hand  and  cast  lightning  upon  lightning  towards 
her.  From  her  crown  to  her  feet  she  felt  her- 
self torn  and  penetrated  by  these  glowing  rays. 
She  silently  extended  her  arms  and  turned 
round  slowly.  As  she  did  so,  the  last  lightning 
dart  pierced  though  her  eyes  into  her  heart, 
and  she  fell  down,  down,  deep  into  the  yawning 
precipice.  Pain  listened  until  he  heard  her  fall, 
and  then  laughed  terribly.  The  mountains  an- 
swered his  laugh  with  thundrous  voice,  the  firs 
bent  and  broke,  the  waters  stood  still  a  second 
for  fear. 


215 


How  long  Sorrow  lay  in  that  abyss  none 
knew,  for  none  asked  after  her.  The  firs  alone 
kept  watch  over  the  sleeper  and  whispered 
dreams  to  her  that  she  did  not  hear. 

One  day  strong  steps  broke  the  silence,  and 
Courage,  his  club  upon  his  shoulder,  came 
singing  by.  He  beheld  Sorrow  as  she  lay  there, 
her  head  on  a  stone,  her  feet  in  the  water, 
encircled  with  her  long  black  hair  that  had  been 
bathed  in  blood.  He  raised  the  body  and 
rubbed  her  numb  hands. 

"  Have  I  got  you  at  last  ?  "  he  said,  "  I  wanted 
to  find  you.  You  may  not  die,  you  must  be 
alive  again." 

He  warmed  her  in  his  arms,  he  revived  her 
with  his  breath  until  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  seek  me  ?  "  she  asked  in  tuneless 
voice.  "  I  am  dead." 


216 


"  The  world  misses  you,  you  must  wander 
again.  Sin  reigns  unchecked  since  you  have 
vanished." 

"  Let  her  keep  her  empire,"  said  Sorrow,  and 
closed  her  eyes-. 

Courage  shook  her. 

"It  must  not  be,  little  sister,  you  must  wan- 
der again." 

"  But  I  am  dead,  do  you  not  see  ?  Do  you 
not  see  that  I  am  burnt?  —  my  brain,  my  eyes, 
my  heart  ;  leave  me  alone." 

"  That  does  not  concern  the  world  whether 
you  wander  through  it  dead  or  alive,  but  wander 
you  must.  I  will  not  let  you  go  till  you  do." 

He  raised  her  on  her  feet.  She  turned  and 
looked  at  him.  He  grew  pale.  Her  face  was 
stony,  her  eyes  stony,  her  hair  hung  round 
her  rigid  and  dead. 


217 


"  Shall  I  go?  "  she  said,  without  moving  her 
lips. 

"  Go,"  said  Courage,  "  for  you  all  pains  are 
past  ;  you  will  gaze  into  the  world  indifferently, 
a  fearful  enemy  to  Sin." 

Sorrow  swept  her  hair  from  off  her  marble 
brow,  and  tried  to  collect  herself.  As  memory 
stirred,  her  eyes  began  to  flash  again  ;  but  their 
light  died  down  almost  immediately.  Yes,  she 
had  grown  terrible,  as  terrible'  as  Pain  had 
desired  in  his  fierce  vengeance,  as  terrible  as  she 
needed  to  be  to  put  a  curb  on  Sin.  Poor  little 
Sorrow  ! 


HE  A  VENL  Y  GIFTS. 


(Sifts. 


[HE  forest  gorge  was  full  of  the  sound 
of  trickling  and  running  waters.  A 
streamlet  skipped  from  rock  to  rock. 
Through  the  dense  foliage  a  sunbeam  crept 
here  and  there,  and  changed  into  a  rain- 
bow in  the  embraces  of  the  waters.  Here  and 
there  dark  little  pools  formed,  upon'whose  sur- 
face floated  a  withered  leaf,  until  it  came  too 
close  to  the  current  and  vanished,  whirling  over 
the  nearest  waterfall.  Huge  tree  trunks  had 
fallen  across  the  gorge.  They  were  used  as 


222 


bridges  by  the  mosses  and  climbing  plants  that 
overgrew  them  with  exuberant  vitality,  and 
hung  down  from  their  sides  as  though  they 
would  drink  of  the  waters  that  murmured  be- 
neath. There  of  a  sudden  a  wondrously  white 
arm  stretched  forth  from  out  of  the  climbing 
plants.  In  its  delicate  hand  it  held  a  staff  of  rock 
crystal  with  a  diamond  knob,  that  flashed  and 
glistened  strangely,  as  though  the  sun  had 
stepped  down  to  behold  itself  in  the  mountain 
stream.  Then  fair  curls  came  to  view  over  the 
confusion  of  plants  that  covered  the  tree  trunk  ; 
then  a  rosy  face,  with  large  dreamy  eyes,  now 
black,  now  dark  blue  in  color,  according  to  the 
thoughts  that  swayed  under  the  cover  of  its  curls. 
Anon  the  charming  being  knelt,  and  one  could 
see  the  golden  girdle  that  held  the  soft  garment 
which  clung  about  her  tender  form,  and  her 


(Sifts.  223 


other  hand  that  held  a  spindle  cut  from  a  single 
emerald,  which  she  twirled  in  the  air  as  though 
she  would  that  it  outshine  the  green  of  the 
beech  leaves. 

"  Oh,  Marchen,1  Marchen,"  the  brook  began 
to  sing,  "  will  you  not  bathe  to-day  ?  Put  by 
your  staff  and  spindle  and  dip  down  to  me.  I 
have  not  kissed  you  to-day." 

The  fair  head  peeped  down  and  looked  into 
the  wood.  No,  there  was  no  one  there,  not 
even  a  deer.  So  Marchen  laid  distaff  and 
spindle  among  the  moss  of  the  tree  trunk, 
twisted  her  hair  into  a  knot,  let  fall  her  linen 

1  I  have  been  forced  to  keep  the  German  word,  as  no 
English  one  covers  that  peculiar  type  of  German  fanciful 
stories  that  are  known  under  this  appellation.  Marchen 
are  something  more  than  fairy  tales  ;  something  deeper, 
wider,  richer,  and  more  varied.  The  queen  calls  the 
present  book  a  cycle  of  Marchen,  —  •  TRANSLATOR. 


224 


garment,  and,  seizing  hold  of  two  twigs,  let 
herself  glide  down  to  the  surface  of  the  brook, 
and  then  began  to  swing  merrily  to  and  fro,  her 
feet  touching  the  water  as  she  swung.  But  the 
brook  did  not  cease  from  singing,  and  from 
imploring  her  to  come  down  into  him.  Then 
she  let  go  the  twigs,  and  fell,  like  a  shower  of 
spring  blossoms,  into  its  wavelets. 

Far  from  here  was  a  lonely  gorge.  Rock 
towered  upon  rock,  and  a  torrent  forced  its  way 
through  with  difficulty.  There  a  grave  man 
leaned  and  looked  down  into  the  waterfall.  His 
brow  was  thoughtful  ;  the  hand  that  rested  upon 
the  stones  was  delicate,  almost  suffering.  A 
pencil  had  fallen  from  its  grasp.  Suddenly 
there  sounded  a  wondrous  singing  from  out 
the  waterfall,  and  the  man's  brow  grew  clearer 
as  he  listened.  That  was  the  moment  when 


l£eaxrjeitlg  CStfts.  225 

Marchen  had  touched  the  waters,  and  it  sang 
and  sounded  and  was  full  of  lovely  forms  and 
sweet  songs  and  many  fair  things  that  attracted 
that  lonely  man.  He  listened  enraptured,  and 
his  soul  expanded  with  the  things  he  heard. 
The  brook  itself  hardly  knew  what  it  babbled  ; 
it  still  trembled  from  having  felt  Marchen's 
touch,  and  it  sang  for  sheer  joy.  The  lonely 
man  departed  with  lightened  brow  and  airy 
steps  as  though  the  air  bore  him.  He  had 
not  long  gone  before  Marchen  appeared  upon 
one  of  the  highest  rocks,  swung  her  distaff  in 
the  air,  and  filled  it  with  gossamer  that  glistened 

in  the  dew.     Then  she  skipped  doAvn,  broke  a 

i 

branch   from  a  blossoming  wild  rose-bush  and 

encircled  the  distaff  with  it  in  lieu  of  a  ribbon, 
put  it  into  her  belt,  and,  jumping  from  stone  to 
stone,  crossed  the  brook  and  went  far  into  the 


226 


forest.  The  birds  flew  about  her  and  chirped  to 
her  news  of  the  east  and  west,  the  north 
and  south.  Squirrels  slid  out  of  the  trees, 
seated  themselves  at  her  feet,  looked  at  her 
with  their  sage  eyes,  and  recounted  all  that  had 
happened  in  the  wood.  The  deer  and  does 
came  about  her  ;  even  the  blind  worms  reared 
their  heads  and  chattered  with  their  sharp 
tongues.  Marchen  stood  still  and  listened  ;  and 
from  time  to  time  she  touched  her  distaff  as 
though  she  would  say,  "  Remember." 

The  forest  grew  ever  denser,  the  flowers  that 
sent  out  their  scent  to  Marchen  more  luxurious. 
At  last  she  had  to  bend  the  branches  apart 
in  order  to  penetrate  further.  There  stood  a 
dream-like  castle  with  tall  gabled  windows,  into 
which  grew  the  tree  branches,  and  from  out 
which  tumbled  creeping  plants.  Roof  and  walls 


||jeatrjetxt0  (Sifts.  227 

had  vanished  beneath  the  roses  that  grew  over 
all  things,  and  out  of  the  castle  sounded  a  thou- 
sand songs  of  birds.  Marchen  stepped  to  the 
open  door  and  entered  the  wide  hall,  whose 
floor  and  walls  were  of  jewels,  and  in  whose 
midst  a  tall  fountain  played.  Round  about 
stood  hundreds  of  Kobolds.  They  had  brought 
with  them  little  stools  of  pure  gold,  and  waited 
to  see  if  their  sweet  queen  be  content.  She 
smiled  approvingly,  and  thanked  her  friends. 
In  midst  of  all  this  shimmering  splendor  fair 
Marchen  stood  like  a  reviving  sunbeam. 

"  See  how  I  have  rilled  my  distaff  to-day," 
she  said,  genially.  "  I  believe  a  jnagnet  lives 
in  your  crystal,  to  which  all  things  fly.  Will 
you  not  fill  it  yet  fuller?" 

The  Kobolds  frowned,  which  made  them  look 
very  comic,  and  one  said — 


228 


"We  have  resolved  to  tell  you  nothing  more, 
because  you  let  it  flow  from  you  like  the  water 
that  tumbles  yonder.  We  have  watched  you. 
When  you  go  forth  at  eve,  you  go  to  our  ene- 
mies, the  mortals  —  those  wretched  thieves  that 
rob  our  treasures,  and  you  tell  them  our  secrets." 

"  No,"  said  Marchen,  "  I  do  not  go  to  all 
mortals;  only  to  some  —  your  friends,  who  love 
you  as  I  do  ;  and  I  only  tell  them  as  much  as 
they  deserve.  Will  you  not  go  on  trusting 
me?" 

They  pushed  a  golden  stool  near  to  the  fount- 
ain and  began  to  recount  to  Marchen,  whose 
eyes  gleamed  like  the  ocean.  When  she  had 
heard  enough,  and  given  it  to  the  distaff  to  guard, 
she  nodded  to  her  little  guests,  who  hurried 
away.  She  then  passed  into  the  nearest  cham- 
ber. There  stood  such  a  wealth  of  flowers  that 


(Sifts.  229 


one  could  not  tell  where  first  to  rest  one's  eyes. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  all  the  wonders  of 
the  tropics  ;  from  the  ceiling  hung  orchids  ;  the 
floor  was  overgrown  with  soft  green  moss,  from 
which  peeped  crocuses,  hyacinths,  violets,  prim- 
roses, and  lilies  of  the  valley.  Humming  birds  and 
nightingales  greeted  their  queen  joyously,  while 
from  the  flower  crowns  elves  uprose  and  stretch- 
ed out  their  arms  in  love. 

Marchen  seated  herself  on  the  grass  and  let 
them  talk  to  her,  toyed  with  the  fair  floxver- 
chilclren  and  began  to  sing  in  unison  with  the 
birds.  Then  she  entered  the  next  room,  whose 
walls  were  pure  rock  crystal,  that  reflected 
Marchen  many  hundred  times.  In  its  center, 
under  mighty  palm  fans,  was  a  large  basin, 
studded  with  rubies,  into  which  foamed  a  water- 
fall. The  nixes  lay  around  it  upon  couches, 


230 


and  waited  for  the  beauty  whom  as  yet  they  had 
not  seen  that  day.  But  Marchen  wanted  to 
hear  no  more  ;  she  had,  like  a  true  queen,  given 
ear  to  so  many  that  she  was  overpowered  with 
fatigue,  and  craved  rest.  So  she  passed  into 
the  next  room,  that  was  a  single  little  bower  of 
rushes  and  bindweeds  ;  the  ground  was  strewn 
with  poppy  flowers,  and  in  its  midst  stood  the 
fairest  couch  eye  has  seen  —  one  single,  large 
rose  —  into  which  Marchen  laid  herself,  and  that 
closed  its  leaves  above  her. 

Now  the  rushes  began  to  rustle  like  an  echo 
of  distant  singing,  and  the  bindweeds  tolled 
their  bells,  and  the  poppies  gave  forth  their 
faint  odor,  and  Marchen  slumbered  deep  and 
sweet  until  the  evening. 

When  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  gazed  like  a 
large,  glowing  eye  between  the  trunks  of  the 


(Sifts.  231 


forest,  so  that  all  the  leaves  looked  golden, 
Marchen  awoke,  placed  her  distaff  in  her  girdle, 
put  the  spindle  beside  it,  and  stepped  outside. 

Twilight  was  creeping  up  mysteriously  and 
dreamily  and  spreading  its  wings  over  the 
forest.  The  birds  grew  still ;  only  the  toads 
in  the  watery  gorge  began  their  one-toned  song. 
A  gentle  murmur  ran  through  the  leaves  and 
across  the  parched  grass,  for  all  wanted  to  look 
on  Marchen  and  aspired  towards  her.  Now  the 
moon  rose  and  threw  bright  lights  hither  and 
thither  and  haunted  the  trees.  He  wanted  to 
kiss  Marchen  and  entice  her  forth  to  play  upon 
the  forest  meadow. 

"  The  elves  await  you,"  he  called  after  Mar- 
chen, who  would  not  listen,  but  floated  on  airily, 
as  though  the  evening  breezes  bore  her.  A 
mill  stood  beside  the  brook  in  the  shadow  of 


232 


the  beeches.  A  fire  gleamed  within  it,  around 
which  people  sat  gathered.  Marchen  entered, 
and  called  the  children.  They  flew  towards  her 
and  drew  her  to  the  fireside,  brought  her  a  stool 
to  sit  upon,  and  gazed  with  large,  eager  eyes  at 
her  full  distaff. 

Marchen  caressed  the  dear,  fair  heads,  drew 
forth  the  spindle,  knotted  the  yarn,  and  began 
to  spin.  And  while  the  spindle  floated  up  and 
down,  swirling,  she  told  them  what  she  beheld 
in  the  yarn,  until  from  sheer  listening  the  chil- 
dren's eyes  fell  to,  and  they  never  knew  next 
day  whether  they  had  really  seen  Marchen  or 
only  in  their  sleep.  She  herself  slipped  out  and 
glided  between  the  trees  till  she  came  to  a 
meadow  shimmering  in  evening  mist.  Hun- 
dreds of  butterflies  hung  upon  the  myriad 
flowers,  two  and  three  on  one  blossom,  and  slept 


(Sifts.  233 


so  deep  and  sound  that  the  heads  of  the  sleepy 
flowers  hung  deep  down  under  the  weight  of 
so  many  guests.  Only  the  large  night-moth 
floated  about  darkly  and  watched  over  the  whole. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  butterflies  dream,"  thought 
Marchen,  as  she  knelt  down  beside  the  flowers 
and  approached  her  ear. 

Yes,  they  dreamed  of  the  journeys  they  had 
taken  that  day  ;  they  dreamed  they  had  gained 
far  fairer  colors:  just  such  green,  blue,  and  red 
hues  like  the  flowers  and  leaves.  Even  the 
plainest  gray  one  dreamt  of  colors  brighter 
than  the  gayest  parrot.  The  flowers  dreamt 
that  a  warm  wind  touched  them,  -and  gave  to 
them  far  sweeter  scents  than  they  had  ever 
owned  —  quite  intoxicatingly  luscious.  It  was 
Marchen's  breath  which  they  had  felt  in  their 
sleep. 


234 


Soon  Marchen  came  to  a  pretty  house  beside 
a  gurgling  stream.  The  water  formed  a  quiet 
little  pool,  in  which  the  moon  and  the  ivy-grown 
house  were  reflected.  The  beeches  dipped  the 
tips  of  their  branches  into  it,  and  a  nightingale 
sang  lonesomely  into  the  night.  Up  in  the 
house  burnt  a  solitary  light,  like  to  a  glowworm, 
Marchen  entered  the  house  as  though  it  were 
most  familiar  to  her,  opened  a  door  softly,  and 
stepped  within  a  little  room.  In  a  deep  arm- 
chair, beside  a  writing-table,  sat  a  handsome, 
pale,  agitated  man.  His  head  was  sunk  in  his 
palm,  and  he  gazed  with  lightless  eyes  across 
the  table,  on  which  Sorrow  was  resting  both 
her  hands. 

"  See,"  he  said,  "  this  morning,  beside  the 
mountain  stream,  I  was  glad  for  a  moment. 
Pictures  filled  my  brain,  but  now  all  is  empty 


(Sifts.  235 


and  dead,  and  I  am  so  weary  —  so  weary.  I 
wish  to  die.  I  cannot  forgive  my  body  that  it 
still  lives  on,  and  yet  a  heavenly  gift  dwells 
within  me  that  keeps  me  alive  and  makes  me 
believe  I  could  still  create.  But  I  do  nothing 
more.  Fatigue  has  grown  stronger  than  aught 
else  in  this  ugly  world.  Would  that  I  had 
never  been  born,  for  I  am  a  man  who  must  re- 
flect the  whole  world  in  its  pain  and  suffering 
and  falsehood.  I  love  men  too  much,  and  there- 
fore they  have  no  faces  forme.  I  only  see  their 
souls,  and  these  are  beautiful  notwithstanding 
all  wickedness  and  misery.  Now  I  grow  miser- 
able with  them.  I  should  like  to-  hide  before 
my  own  eyes,  for  I  am  worth  nothing  —  nothing. 
All  that  I  do  is  vain,  and  will  vanish  unheard  ; 
all  I  think  others  know  much  better.  A  fire. 
burns  in  me  that  consumes  me  in  lieu  of  warm- 


236  3£i%rtm  jlovvxrw. 


ing  my  fellow-men.  I  feel  like  one  that  is 
drowning,  to  whom  no  saving  hand  is  extended. 
I  should  be  a  man  and  save  myself,  but  my 
strength  is  at  an  end.  I  have  lived  too  much. 
I  have  lived  through  all  that  which  others  have 
felt,  and  borne  my  own  woes  besides.  Now  it 
is  too  much,  do  you  see  —  too  much  ;  and  I  can 
no  longer  give  to  the  world  what  I  fain  would 
have  given  it  —  all  the  new,  great,  lovely  things 
that  dwell  in  my  brain.  But  it  had  no  time  to 
listen  to  me.  And  perhaps  there  is,  after  all, 
no  value  in  these  things,  though  to  my  small 
mind  they  seemed  so  great.  Yet  they  cannot 
bear  the  light.  I  am  weary.  I  want  to  die." 
Sorrow  listened,  and  never  took  her  eyes  from 
him  ;  but  her  pitying  gaze  made  him  yet  more 
irritable  and  desperate.  Suddenly  Marchen 
stood  before  him,  with  glittering  distaff,  with 


(Sifts.  237 


shining  teeth  and  beaming  eyes  ;  dimples  in  her 
cheeks,  and  the  distaff  of  promise  in  her  hands. 
He  looked  at  her  and  was  dazzled. 

"  I  wanted  to  help,"  said  Sorrow,  "  but  he 
grew  ever  worse." 

"  You  help  him  !  " 

Marchen  laughed. 

"  Go  your  ways  and  leave  him  to  me  ;  I  will 
manage  him.  I  know  all.  You  are  once  more 
weary  of  the  world  and  want  to  die,  and  have 
no  talent,  and  men  are  all  bad,  very  wicked  in- 
deed, and  faithless,  and  have  deserted  you,  and 
do  not  believe  in  you.  Oh,  you  poor,  poor 
human  soul  !  Why  do  you  not  become  a  but- 
terfly and  sleep  on  a  flower?  He  knows  that 
he  has  wings,  and  that  his  flower  has  scent,  and 
that  his  meadow  is  quite  full  of  blossoms. 
What  does  he  care  whether  the  others  see  it 


238 


since  he  sees  it  !  And  now  look  here  ;  I  have 
come  back,  although  you  scarcely  deserve  it, 
you  doubter.  Look  at  this  heavy  laden  distaff, 
that  is  for  you,  only  for  you,  if  you  will  listen 
to  me." 

And  Marchen  began  to  spin  and  sing  and 
narrate  all  night  long,  and  her  friend  wrote  and 
wrote,  without  knowing  that  his  pencil  moved  ; 
he  thought  he  had  only  heard  and  listened.  He 
wrote  down  thoughts  and  songs  and  poems  ; 
they  streamed  like  living  fire  from  under  his 
hand.  And  what  he  wrote  moved  the  world. 
Men  thought  his  thoughts  after  him,  and  sang 
his  songs,  and  wept  over  his  stories,  and  knew 
not  that  the  poet  who  had  given  them  all  these 
things  was  sad  unto  death,  misunderstood  of 
all,  and  that  Sorrow  visited  him  far  oftener  than 
Marchen. 


(Sifis.  239 


They  called  him  a  child  of  the  gods  and  a 
genius,  and  knew  not  that  he  was  a  man  for 
whose  soul  Sorrow  and  Marchen  struggled 
ceaselessly,  and  who  had  suffered  so  much  grief 
and  seen  so  many  wonders  that  his  strength 
was  broken.  Ay,  the  children  of  the  gods  must 
suffer  much  on  earth,  and  Marchen  only  visits 
those  that  have  been  proved,  and  ever  departs 
from  them  if  they  have  made  themselves  un- 
worthy of  her.  Once  she  told  at  parting  the 
tale  which  follows  :  — 


THE  TREASURE  SEEKERS. 


{Treasure  Seekers, 


jHE  Philosopher  and  the  Poet  set  out 
together  on  a  pilgrimage,  to  seek  after 
the  hidden  treasure  of  cognition  J  and 
to  raise  it.  They  had  been  told  that  it  lay 
buried  there  where  the  rainbow  touches  the 
earth,  and  that  it  was  quite  easy  to  find.  The 
Philosopher  dragged  instruments  with  him,  and 

1  Erkenntniss  is  the  German  word.  The  tree  of  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil  is  called  in  German  "  der  baum  der  Erkennt- 
niss." The  clumsy  philosophical  term  "  cognition  "  alone 
seems  to  me  to  embrace  all  the  author  would  include  in  her 
meaning.  —  TRANSLATOR. 


244 


began  accurate  measurements,  and  as  often  as  he 
saw  a  rainbow  he  carefully  measured  the  dis- 
tance, determined  the  spot  with  mathematical 
accuracy,  hurried  thither  and  began  to  dig.  The 
Poet,  meanwhile,  laid  himself  in  the  grass  and 
laughed  and  toyed  with  the  sunbeams.  They 
played  about  his  happy  brow,  they  told  to  him 
bright  fairy  tales  of  dreamland,  and  showed 
him  the  life  and  working  of  nature.  He  grew 
familiar  with  all  plants  and  creatures,  he  learnt 
to  know  their  speech,  and  he  became  versed  in 
their  secret  whisperings  and  sighs.  Ay,  all 
created  things  came  to  have  faces  for  him,  from 
the  tenderest  plant  and  the  most  insignificant 
beast,  and  before  his  eyes  were  unrolled  deeds 
full  of  woe  and  joy. 

When  at  last  the    Philosopher,  with    solemn 
look,    torn  hands,  and    weary  back,    rose  from 


245 


his  shaft    back  into  daylight,  laden  with  some 

new    stones,    he  marveled    when  he  saw    the 

•» 

Poet's  face  radiant,  as  though  he  had  heard 
wonders. 

"  How  transfigured  you  are,  you  lazy  one!" 
he  said  angrily. 

"  Who  tells  you  that  I  am  lazy?  " 

"  You  always  remain  here  on  the  surface  while 
I  go  into  the  depths." 

"  Perhaps  the  surface,  too,  offers  some  solu- 
tions, and  perchance  I  read  these." 

"What  can  the  surface  offer?  One  must 
penetrate  into  the  depths.  I  have  as  yet  not 
found  the  right  spot  in  which  -the  promised 
treasure  lies,  but  I  have  made  some  most  import- 
ant discoveries,  though  never  yet  the  right 
ones,  those  that  I  apprehend." 

"  Let  us  seek  further,"  said  the  Poet. 


246 


Suddenly  he  held  his  friend  by  the  arm,  and 
pointed  with  breathless  delight. 

"Another  rainbow!"  cried  the  Philosopher, 
and  began  his  measurements. 

But  the  Poet  had  seen  behind  the  sun-glitter- 
ing rainbow  a  wondrous  form  with  black  hair 
and  large,  sad  eyes.  She  seemed  to  wait  for 
him;  then  she  turned  away  slowly.  As  though 
demented,  the  Poet  rushed  after  her  ;  he  for- 
got the  aim  of  his  pilgrimage,  forgot  his  friend, 
who  had  descended  into  a  new  shaft.  He  only 
hurried  after  that  wondrous  being  whose  eyes 
had  sunk  into  his  soul.  Over  hill  and  dale,  from 
house  to  house  he  followed  the  fair  form.  He 
saw  the  world  and  its  agonies,  wherever  he 
looked  he  beheld  woe,  for  in  his  own  heart  dwelt 
the  greatest  woe,  the  gnawing  pangs  of  love. 
He  ever  thought  he  must  attain  to  his  enchant- 


247 


ress,  who  stepped  in  front  of  him  so  calmly, 
through  the  fallen  autumn  leaves,  across  the 
soft  snow,  in  the  bitter  north  wind  —  north,  south, 
east,  and  west,  ever  unapproachable.  Once  or 
twice  she  looked  round  after  him,  and  her  gaze 
only  increased  his  yearning. 

At  last  Spring  neared  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind.  At  the  spot  whence  the  Poet  had  set 
out  the  fair  form  halted.  Now  he  should  reach 
it.  But  at  that  moment  a  hurricane  broke  loose 
that  shook  the  world.  Forests  were  uprooted, 
and  all  the  sluices  of  heaven  seemed  opened. 
The  Poet  crossed  the  foaming  mountain  stream 
at  the  peril  of  his  life,  and  cam-e  up  to  her  who 
stood  calm  amid  all  this  uproar,  and  only  gazed 
at  him.  He  seized  her  hand. 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  me,"  she  said,  sadly. 
"  I  wanted  to  flee  from  you  because  I  love  you, 


248 


for  I  bring  you  no  happiness.  I  am  Sorrow, 
and  must  leave  you  a  heavy  heart  and  serious 
thoughts.  Farewell  !  You  have  found  your 
treasure  ;  now  you  need  me  no  longer." 

So  speaking  she  vanished. 

The  hurricane  had  changed  into  a  fine,  driz- 
zling rain,  through  which  the  Spring  sunbeams 
pierced  to  the  Poet.  At  that  moment  the  Philos- 
opher rose  out  of  the  earth  richly  laden.  He 
let  all  his  burden  fall,  folded  his  hands,  and 
cried  —  "  Why,  you  lucky  wight,  you  stand  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  rainbow,  straight  upon 
the  treasure." 

"  Who?  I  ?  "  said  the  Poet,  waking  from  his 
stupor.  Then  he  threw  himself  to  earth  and 
wept  aloud  and  cried  — 

"  Oh  that  I  had  never  been  born  !  I  suffer 
unspeakable  torture." 


249 


The  Philosopher  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
began  to  dig  anew. 

"  There  stands  one  right  upon  his  treasure," 
he  said,  "  and  does  not  know  it  ;  and  when  I  tell 
him  he  weeps.  Oh  these  poets  !  " 


A  LIFE. 


a  Xife, 


WANTED  to  find  Truth.  Then 
Sorrow  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
said — 

"  Come  with  me,  I  will  lead  you  to  Truth,  but 
you  must  not  faint  or  fear  by  the  way." 

"I!  I  fear  nothing;  and  I  am  so  strong  I 
could  carry  mountains." 

Sorrow  looked  at  me  pityingly,  and  gave  no 
answer,  but  led  me  into  a  hall  that  was  vast  and 
high  and  airy,  filled  with  wondrous  strains  of 
music,  glorious  pictures,  and  statues.  I  wan- 


254  ipt#*tra  Sorrow. 


dered  among  them  bewildered.  There  was 
nothing  to  fear  here. 

"See,"  said  Sorrow,  "here  live  the  Arts  ;  you 
may  choose  one  of  them.  But  of  your  own  ac- 
cord you  must  select  that  which  suits  you  ;  and 
it  will  help  you  on  the  road  to  Truth." 

Then  I  laid  my  hand  on  an  instrument — 

"  Music  tempts  me,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  sing  and 
play  like  a  god,  an  it  cost  me  my  life  and  my 
happiness." 

With  what  ardor,  what  fire  did  I  begin  to 
play !  I  followed  music  like  an  adored  mis- 
tress. I  besought  her  to  lead  me  to  Truth. 
But  she  ever  went  too  fast  or  soared  above  my 
head,  while  I  played  till  my  hands  failed  me. 
Song  sounded  weak  and  small  in  my  throat,  in- 
stead of  sobbing  and  storming.  Then  I  ran  in- 
to the  Wood  in  my  distress,  and  it  comforted  me. 


255 


One  day  Sorrow  touched  my  shoulder. 

"  You  still  play  badly,  you  still  sing  feebly  ; 
let  us  go  further  :  you  are  no  artist." 

I  laid  aside  my  instrument  and  wept. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Sorrow  ;  "  you  wanted  to  carry 
a  mountain." 

And  she  led  me  into  a  large,  solemn,  dimly  lit 
room,  that  was  full  of  books  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing. 

"  Here  is  food  for  your  spirit,"  said  Sorrow  ; 
"  seek,  seek  ;  in  Science  lives  Truth." 

I  seated  myself  in  a  tall,  worn  armchair,  and 
began  to  learn.  But  I  could  only  study  slowly, 
for  ever  my  thoughts  would  wander  their  own 
ways.  Now  the  fire  burned  too  brightly  and 
told  me  fairy  tales  ;  now  the  wind  howled  round 
the  old  house,  so  that  I  thought  I  must  away, 
and  the  letters  grew  dim  to  my  eyes.  I  strove 


256 


to  check  this  hapless  fantasy  that  held  me  back 
on  the  road  to  Truth  ;  but  it  was  stronger  than 
I.  Sometimes  it  pressed  a  pencil  into  my  hand, 
and  then  I  wrote  secretly  poor  little  verses, 
which  I  hid  from  the  very  books,  from  the  very 
air  of  the  room.  At  last  I  threw  myself  back  in 
the  chair  and  cried  — 

"  Wisdom,  too,  is  not  for  me.  She  seems  to 
me  dead  and  dusty,  and  I  —  I  desire  to  live." 

"  Do  you  want  that  ?  "  said  Sorrow.  "  But 
then  you  must  not  fear." 

"  I  do  not  fear,  I  want  to  live." 

Then  I  stood  beside  a  sick  bed,  where  a  love- 
ly gifted  boy  struggled  with  Death.  His  suffer- 
ings exceeded  the  measure  of  the  endurable,  yet 
Sorrow  would  not  quit  him.  But  Courage,  too, 
remained  at  his  side.  Two  years  the  terrible 
struggle  lasted,  and  I  asked  — 


257 


"  Where  is  Truth  ?  Is  this  to  live  ?  " 

When  he  died  I  trembled,  for  the  first  time, 
for  fear.  Then  Sorrow  took  me  from  one  death- 
bed to  another.  How  many  fair  maiden  flow- 
ers that  had  grown  up  beside  and  with  me  did  I 
see  fade  !  And  I  wept  till  my  eyes  were  dim. 

"  Is  this  to  live  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

Then  Sorrow  took  me  with  her  on  long  jour- 
neys to  the  North,  South,  East,  and  West.  I 
saw  all  men,  all  arts,  all  treasures,  the  mighty 
sea,  and  the  petty  towns,  till  I  grew  homesick^ 
for  the  old  house  in  which  I  had  seen  so  many 
die,  in  which  my  father  had  now  closed  his  eyes. 
For  when  I  came  back  I  found  Jiis  armchair 
empty.  Then  I  was  ready  to  die  of  grief. 

"  What,"  said  Sorrow,  "  die  already  ?  And 
you  could  carry  a  mountain  ?  Why,  you  have 
not  lived  yet,  for  you  have  not  loved." 


258 


While  she  said  this  she  laid  her  hand  on  my 
heart,  and  like  a  mighty  stream  love  entered  in 
with  song  and  rejoicing.  Only  the  Wood  saw 
it,  and  it  rejoiced  with  me,  and  yet  more  secret- 
ly I  wrote  now  and  again  a  little  poem. 
\ButTruthwas  not  in  love,  neither  was  it  in 
renunciation,  for  I  murmured  and  knew  not  why 
I  should  renounce.  Sorrow's  hand  lay  heavy 
on  my  arm,  and  for  a  long  time  my  steps  were 
weak  and  slow.  I  no  longer  sought  after  Truth. 
But  at  last  I  seemed  to  see  that  she  must  lie  in 
Work,  in  great,  rich  Work.  When  Sorrow 
heard  me  say  this,  she  raised  my  drooping  head 
and  pointed  before  me. 

"  Here  stands  a  good  man,  and  waits  for  you. 
Will  you  love  him  your  life  long  ?  Here  is  your 
path,  it  is  rough  and  stony,  and  leads  past  prec- 
ipices to  steep  heights.  Will  you  walk  on  it? 


259 


And  there  lies  work  for  you,  mountains  high. 
Will  you  carry  it  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  I  said. 

Then  Sorrow  led  me  into  marriage,  and 
made  me  a  mother,  and  laid  great  rich  labors 
upon  my  shoulders.  I  groped  about  to  find  the 
right  path,  and  we  had  to  meet  with  mistrust 
and  misunderstanding,  and  on  the  steep  path 
stood  hate  and  strife.  But  I  did  not  fear,  for  I 
was  a  mother.  But  not  many  years  was  this 
high  dignity  mine,  my  child's  fair  eyes  closed, 
and  I  laid  his  curly  head  .in  the  grave.  Yet 
I  stood  erect,  notwithstanding  the  fire  in  my 
breast,  and  I  asked  of  Sorrow  — 

"  Where  is  Truth  ?  Now  that  all  earthly  joy, 
all  earthly  hopes  have  been  borne  to  the  grave, 
there  remains  for  me  nothing  but  Truth  ;  I  have 
a  rieht  to  find  her." 


260 


Then  Sorrow  pressed  into  my  hand  a  pencil, 
and  said  —  "  Seek." 

And  I  wrote  and  wrote,  and  knew  not  that 
I  exercised  an  art,  for  years  since,  I  had 
with  heavy  heart  renounced  being  an  artist.  I 
sought  to  do  good  where  I  could.  I  learnt  to 
understand  men  and  to  think  myself  into  their 
innermost  being  ;  but  I  did  not  find  Truth. 
My  steps  once  more  grew  heavy  and  weary, 
until  at  last,  conquered  by  sickness,  I  had  to  lie 
down.  And  during  this  long  illness  I  tasted  all 
life's  bitterness,  all  chagrin  and  despair  that  can 
reside  in  one  poor  human  breast,  and  I  desired 
to  die.  But  Sorrow  taught  me  to  be  well  again, 
and  ever  faster  flew  my  pencil,  ever  richer 
streamed  my  thoughts,  ever  wider  grew  my 
field  of  labor,  ever  sterner  the  care  for  others' 
weal. 


261 


Then  the  ground  beneath  our  feet  trembled 
and  War  drew  nigh  with  his  companions.  His 
breath  was  thunder,  his  eye  fire,  his  hand  the 
lightning.  The  cloak  that  infolded  him  wrapped 
the  whole  heavens  in  black  night.  We  staked 
life  and  wealth  and  honor,  and  our  heart's 
blood  fell  to  earth  in  the  terrible  struggle, 
from  which  our  trusty  ones,  who  stood  by  us  as 
firmly  as  we  stood  by  them,  issued  victorious. 
It  was  my  part  to  heal  the  wounds  and  soften 
the  sufferings.  But  neither  was  Truth  here. 
True,  we  came  forth  from  the  strife  fearless  and 
purified,  but  already  envy  and  jealousy  lurked 
on  our  path,  and  made  it  slippery  and  unsafe. 

"Oh,  Truth,  Truth,"  I  cried,  "my  youth  is 
past  ;  I  have  fought  the  hardest  fights  and  I 
still  live,  but  I  have  not  yet  seen  Truth." 

"  There  she  stands,"  said  Sorrow,  and  when  I 


262  !2?iI0vtra 


raised  my  eyes  I  saw  in  the  distance,  besides  a 
silent  water,  a  little  child  whose  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Is  that  child  Truth  ?  "  I  asked. 

Sorrow  nodded. 

"She  is  not  to  be  feared,  is  she?  " 

But  while  Sorrow  spoke  thus,  the  child  grew 
taller  and  taller,  until  she  held  the  whole  earth 
in  her  hand,  and  embraced  the  whole  heavens. 

"  Do  you  see  Truth,"  said  Sorrow.  "  And  now 
look  within  yourself;  she  is  there  too." 

And  as  I  gazed  within,  I  cried  — 

"  Wherefore  have  I  suffered  and  fought?  she 
was  ever  there,  about  me,  and  in  me,  and  now  I 
will  die." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Sorrow. 

Then  it  grew  misty  before  my  eyes,  and  I  saw 
nothing  more.  But  Sorrow  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  led  me  further. 


J 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFOKJNi> 

AT 

US  AJMGELES 
UBRARY 


